welcome to my safe place

your closed fist raps against the large wooden door -knock, knock. knock- you're not waiting long, hands slipping back into the pockets of your coat before the door opens and gojo's tall frame is filling the doorway.

he already knows why you're here. he's the president of the frat; he knows 97% of everything that goes on in the house, even when he isn't here.

a sly smile slides onto his face before he's stepping out of the way to let you in. "he's in the basement tonight."

"thanks." you slip into the house, the warmth of the heater swallowing the cold clinging to your skin and fading the rosiness from your cheeks.

you quickly make your way to the basement door, slowly opening it to avoid the obnoxious squeak it makes and ignoring gojo's whispered-shout of "tell him to give us some free weed -this isn't fair!"

you make your way down the stairs, avoiding the 4th step from the bottom. it's wobbly, practically begging someone to smack their face onto the concrete floor waiting just steps below.

and there he is. sitting in his rolling chair, back hunched over the desk that's littered with crumbs of green and already measuring out your goods.

you clear your throat softly before walking over, stopping a few feet away. "hey chocho"

it's the nickname you gave him the first time you met him. he never did bother correcting you and you were always able to catch a cherry stain falling onto his cheeks whenever he heard it slip from you.

he doesn't look up right away, still measuring out the goods on his little scale but you catch his quiet murmur as he concentrates on the little numbers displaying. "you're late."

"it's cold out and snowing" you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes, as if he had anything better to do. "i can't risk messing up my pretty face."

there's a moment of comfortable silence before he's snapping open the ziploc bag and dumping his measurements in.

he turns to you, those doe brown eyes meeting yours. "blue dream." arms stretching out to pass you the bag. "for my dream girl."

your heart seizes in your chest for a beat. you catch yourself fidgeting with your fingertips in your pockets. you two are just friends.

but do "just friends" do what this deal was?

you ignore his comment, looking anywhere but him. "normal payment?"

you'd be lying to yourself if you said your heart didn't pick up speed when you were around him or how you'd snap your attention to whoever said his name around you.

"yeah. yeah, normal" choso murmurs, eyes averting from you and standing to unbuckle his belt. "is that still what you want to do?"

a heat pools in your belly at the sight- at the slow drag of leather through each belt loop, the glimpses of skin you're catching. but it's his question, filled with genuine care that does the real damage. the softness of his voice, the light wave of insecurity that you caught causes your chest to tighten.

you shrug off your coat and let it drop to the floor without a second thought. you can't afford to linger tonight- not if you want to keep what's left of your sanity.

"yeah. always, chocho" your voice comes out as whisper as you walk over to be closer to him.

you step closer until the heat of his body bleeds into yours. the basement air feels thicker now, heavy with the sweet and sharp scent of blue dream still clinging to his fingers and the faint musk of arousal already leaking from him. his thighs part, just enough to make room, an invitation he doesn’t voice.

your hands find the waistband of his jeans first. you don’t rush the zipper. instead you trace the metal teeth with one fingertip -up, then down- feeling the way his abs flutter under the thin cotton of his hoodie.

choso’s breath hitches, barely audible, but you hear it. You always hear the little sounds he tries to swallow.

“baby. . .” it’s so soft you almost miss it. the pet name slips out like he’s testing if it’s allowed tonight.

you don’t answer with words. you lean in and press your lips to the strip of skin just above his waistband - warm, slightly salty, dusted with faint dark hair causing him to shiver.

one of his hands come up, hesitant, fingertips brushing your cheek before sliding back to cradle the nape of your neck. not pulling. not forcing. just holding. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you tug the zipper down inch by torturous inch. the sound is loud in the quiet - slow, deliberate, every inch of the zipper parting like a confession. his boxers are already tented, a dark spot blooming where he’s been leaking for who knows how long.

you palm him through the fabric first, feeling the thick heat of him jump against your hand. he groans low in his throat, head tipping back against the chair. “fuck. . .you’re killing me.”

“good,” you murmur against his skin, lips brushing the line of his hipbone. “you deserve it for making me come all the way here in the snow.”

a shaky laugh escapes him, half-breathless. “you could’ve said no.”

you could’ve. but you never do. and you needed the smoke in your lungs tonight.

you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and drag them down with his jeans- just enough. his cock springs free, heavy and flushed dark at the tip, already slick.

you wrap your hand around him slowly, thumb sweeping over the bead of pre-cum at the slit, spreading it in lazy circles until he’s glistening.

choso’s hips twitch forward before he catches himself. “sorry- shit, sorry.”

“don’t be.” you stroke him once, base to tip, agonizingly slow. “i like when you can’t help it.”

his eyes flutter shut for a second. when they open again they’re darker, pupils swallowing the brown, that tattooed mark across his nose standing out sharper against the flush creeping up his cheeks.

you lean in and kiss the head first- soft, chaste almost, just lips brushing velvet skin. then your tongue flicks out, tasting him. salt and musk and something distinctly choso that makes your thighs press together instinctively.

you and choso have never had sex. only these moments. but moment's like this makes you crave what you haven't had even more.

he whimpers when your hand rubs across his balls, hesitant with giving them the pressure he loves. an actual whimper, small and wrecked - and his fingers tighten in your hair. not guiding. just clinging.

you take your time. flat tongue dragging up the underside in one long, wet stripe. swirling around the ridge. sucking just the tip into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks for a heartbeat before releasing with a soft pop.

his thighs tremble under your palm that's gripping him.

“chocho…” you breathe against him. barely pulling back, the nickname a quiet plea of its own.

he makes a broken sound, hips canting up in tiny, helpless rocks. “please.”

you give him what he’s begging for- slowly. lips stretching around him as you sink down, inch by inch, until he’s nudging the back of your throat. you pause there, breathing through your nose, letting him feel the heat and wet and the soft flutter of your throat working and tightening around him.

his whole body locks. a long, shuddering exhale. “god. . .baby, you’re so- fuck.”

you pull back just as slow, letting spit string between your lips and his cock before you take him into your mouth again. the rhythm builds gradually - wet slides, tongue pressing flat, hand twisting at the base in time with your mouth.

it's messy. unhurried. every time you take him deep he makes these quiet, punched-out noises that shoot straight to your core.

his free hand finds yours on his thigh. fingers lace together. he squeezes like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

you glance up through your lashes. he’s watching you - eyes glassy, lips parted, chest heaving under the hoodie. the way he looks at you. . .it’s too much. like you’re the only thing in the world that matters right now.

“close,” he rasps eventually, voice fraying at the edges. “i'm- shit, ’m so close.”

you don’t pull off. you take him deeper, nose brushing his pubes, throat relaxing around him as you swallow. his hips jerk once, twice - then he’s coming with a low, broken moan of your name, pulsing hot and thick down your throat.

you work him through it, swallowing and milking every drop, until he’s trembling, oversensitive, whispering “too much. . .baby, too much. . .”

you ease off gently, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his softening length, his hip, the crease of his thigh. he’s still breathing hard when you sit back on your heels.

he reaches for you immediately- hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing the spit-slick corners of your mouth. he pulls you up slow, into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. His arms wrap around you like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

he kisses you deeper than usual- lazy, tasting himself, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.

“you okay?” he murmurs, voice still wrecked.

you nod, it's all you can manage. but your chest feels tight. too tight.

his hand slides down your back, fingers dipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing slow circles on bare skin. “stay for a bit?” it’s barely a question - more like a hope he’s afraid to voice louder.

you want to. god, you want to crawl under his hoodie and stay there until the snow stops and the world feels less cold.

but the clock on his desk is blinking. the weed bag is still sitting there, untouched. and outside, the night is waiting.

Your heart clenches—sharp, painful—like it’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping.

“i. . i should go,” you whisper. The words taste like ash.

his arms tighten for a second, instinctive before he's loosening them, reluctantly.

“yeah,” he says quietly. too quiet. “okay.”

you slide off his lap. legs shaky. coat still crumpled on the floor. you pick it up and shrug it on, fingers fumbling with the zipper because you can’t look at him right now.

he stands too- slow, jeans still undone, hoodie rumpled. he steps closer, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with careful fingers.

“text me when you get home safe?” his voice cracks just the tiniest bit.

you nod. swallowing down everything you wish you could say.

the stairs feel longer going up. the cold bites harder when you step outside. snowflakes catch in your lashes, melting against the heat still lingering on your skin.

you don’t look back at the house. you can't or you'll go back.

but your heart keeps clenching- small, helpless, pathetic spasms - as you walk away into the white night, the weight of everything you didn’t say pressing heavier than the snow ever could.

and maybe next time you’ll finally find the courage. or maybe you’ll just keep trading favors and stolen moments until one of you breaks.