miso ᝰ.ᐟ

That fateful day, on the streets of Harajuku, Satoru Gojo's world was upturned and completely changed. His one and only left him on the bustling shopping street, in front of a fast-food restaurant. They had argued like nothing before, so much so that he didn't even recognise the man in front of him.

Suguru had forgone a lot of things that day. His raven hair had forgone its usual neat bun, instead done half-up half-down. His body had forgone his Jujutsu Tech uniform, instead opting for casual sweats (stolen, of course) that still had the lingering scent of Satoru's smell.

Suguru had forgone Satoru that day, too.

"Are you the strongest because you're Gojo Satoru? Or are you Gojo Satoru because you're the strongest?" It was the one thing Suguru said that had stuck with him through the past year. It caught him off-guard, like pricking his finger on a rose that he had thought was already dethorned.

It caught him off-guard, and it stung. Never in a million years would he have expected it coming from Suguru. Yet, looking back, Satoru wanted to kick himself for not seeing the signs earlier.

From that day on, they went no-contact. It was an unspoken promise, one to keep for as long as they weren't on the same side. No more texts, no more calls, no more talking. Not another word exchanged. The flip phone that Satoru had used — the one that had Suguru's number on it, the one that had Suguru's photos and videos on it, the one that had every single text and every single call between them logged on it — remained buried in the drawer of his nightstand. He got himself a new phone, saved everyone else's numbers back onto it, and simply pretended that he forgot to remove Suguru's.

He did everything he could to forget Suguru's presence in his life. He focused on life after graduating: Megumi and his sister needed all the care they could get. He moved in permanently to the house Toji had left, becoming more like their parent than he ever could have imagined himself being. After Riko's death, he never thought he would have to take care of children again, but here he was. He grew to love them, spoil them, care for them like they were really his.

The start of 2009 had seen them on a trip to Okinawa. They took a plane there, just the three of them. They played in the sand at the beach, ate noodles by it, visited the aquarium, went flower-viewing, just like he had two years ago. He wanted to enjoy himself with the kids, but couldn't stop feeling as though Suguru was beside him, couldn't stop feeling as though it was just yesterday that they had been in loud hawaiian shirts and flip-flops slapping the ground with each step, padding along behind Riko and Kuroi, admiring the way sunlight fell through the waters and reflected off of the fishes' scales like iridescent rainbows, illuminating a fish or two here, some corals, maybe even a stingray or a shark.

He was trying his hardest to forget, so … why did nothing work?

Suguru's presence wouldn't leave him, or his memories. It was inescapable: in the cigarette packs he saw when buying sweets at the store, in the shirts he stole from Suguru's closet that still had his smell on them, in the hair ties that Satoru made a habit to carry around, in case Suguru forgot his own. Even now, he still had a couple hanging from his wrist. He was everywhere, like the overgrown trails of ivy up the sides of a weathered and long-abandoned home, one that stopped being a home the moment its roots had been laid down and no one was around to preen and trim them, and try as Satoru might, he could never get rid of him.

He was everywhere, and it hurt.

It hurt to be without him, because who would be his other half if not Suguru? Suguru was like the sea to his sky, the last missing puzzle piece needed to complete the picture, the stellar finishing line in an already well-written novel, the finer, smaller details to an almost-completed oil painting. Without him, Satoru would always be teetering on that thin line between good and great, already perfect on his own but just missing that one spark to truly be extraordinary. No one else could be Satoru's spark except Suguru.

Satoru knew that he wouldn't be able to stay away from Suguru forever. No matter how hard he tried to resist temptation, he could never win. Like the moon attracts the tide, they were forever drawn to each other in some strange, twisted way of fate. Yet, as entangled as they were, they were never build to last.

The opportunity presented itself in the form of a mission in the early legs of summer, with the blazing sun beating down on his back in the middle of July 16 months later.

It had been a simple curse exorcism near Nagano, in a rural part of the town where a middle school had been. Satoru happened to be near the area, on the way back to Tokyo after a business trip, and had agreed to take up the task.

He hummed a little tune as he made his way around the town, enjoying the cool breeze and the chatter of locals. Finally, he stopped at the gate leading into Zenkōji temple, only stopping to greet the stray temple cat sleeping atop the saisen grate cover. He walked past the shops, some selling souvenirs, others selling foods, only stopping to buy some strawberry daifuku, munching on the sweet treat as he ascended the steps to the temple.

Up the steps he went, glancing at the different buddha statues with vague interest. He never particularly cared to pay attention to them, but he knew if Suguru were here, he would immediately start rattling off about fun facts and other bits and bobs of information. Now, without Suguru by his side to bask in and absorb his loudness, silence had become his new best friend.

He binned the empty daifuku wrapper, turning around and ascending the steps of the temple. A small corner of his bandages came loose; He decided to take care of the loose end before they fully came undone (Six Eyes were really a high-maintenance technique). He stood at the side of the stairway so as to not block anyone, gently unwrapping the thin string of bandage and wincing when the sunlight hit his sclera at just the right angle to practically blind him. He sighed, rubbing his eyes to alleviate the pain.

Until he saw a man, but not just any man.

A man, dressed in a Gojokesa, lighting a cigarette in the empty walkway outside the temple. Sleek, raven hair cascaded down his back, with half of it done up in a neat bun. The same broad shoulders, the same arms, the same hands.

That couldn't possibly be—

Could it?

He knew Suguru better than anything or anyone in this world. Even if he was without his Six Eyes, he would recognise Suguru from touch and smell alone. Even in a room full of a million other people, even if he was blind, even after a year of not feeling Suguru's warm skin under his fingertips.

Who wouldn't recognise a melody in a world full of record scratches and static noise?

He didn't want to entertain such an idea, but his treacherous mind was ahead of him. Hope had begun flooding his mind like a drug, so much of it that it made his head spin. Maybe that really was Suguru. Maybe, just maybe, he could go up to him, give him a friendly tap on the shoulder, exchange some useless formalities and make plans to meet up next weekend—

No. He couldn't. They had cut contact for a reason, Satoru reminds himself.

But wouldn't it be nice to just catch up?

And it would. It would be nice to catch up for a weekend, to go out for drinks and cake and sit in a cafe acting like nothing was wrong, like they were still as close as they had been just two years ago — like they weren't meant to be on opposite sides of a war they never wanted to fight for.

It would be nice.

And then a realisation comes, worming its way through Satoru's memories like a parasite.

They never said a proper goodbye.

They never ever said a proper farewell to each other. A mess of emotions come bubbling up from the pit of Satoru's stomach, so heady and potent and strong as they rise up to his lungs, ready to grab at his throat with their clawed, wretched fingers and choke him till the guilt and frustration and hurt take over all his senses and his mind is left as nothing but a mess of nostalgic, bittersweet memories. He can't tell whether he would rather leave them be or extract each one out from his mind. Which one would cause more pain?

He eyed the man's (Suguru's?) cigarette with building resentment, secretly cursing it out in the back of his mind. He was never particularly fond of the taste of tobacco on his own tongue, but he loved tasting it on Suguru's, mixed with the sweetness of the candies he ate after consuming his curses.

Maybe he should give smoking a shot. It's been far too long without Suguru on his lips, on his body, in his arms. He didn't know back then what he would end up losing: back then, when going a few days to a week without Suguru already felt like hell. Back then, when they used to kiss under the warm covers, the bitter taste of tobacco mixed with the sweetness of convenience store candies melting on Satoru’s tongue, and it was the best taste in the world to him. Better than colas or regular candies or cakes, because this was the taste of Suguru. The stupidly sweet, flowery-scented shampoo he always used, paired with the lingering smokey smell of cigarette smoke.

That smell and that taste combined felt more like home than his clan seat could ever.

He always told himself he hated the smell of cigarettes, which was only half of the truth. He despised the scent, since only nostalgia followed after it. It was everywhere, like an unsightly spilled ink blot on the page of a well-written story that was him.

It haunted him. It stayed in his sheets and on his pillowcase, clung to his clothes that never came off no matter how hard he scrubbed his shirts. It made just being in his room feel like a prison. It lingered on his lips and tongue, on the crook of his neck where Suguru used to bury his face. Smelling it only made the memories come back fresher than ever. Each memory that came flooding back only brought more pain, more heartbreak, more longing.

God, did he miss Suguru.

Maybe he should give smoking a shot. It's been far too long without Suguru on his lips, on his body, in his arms. He didn't know back then what he would end up losing: back then, when going a few days to a week without Suguru already felt like hell.

He forces himself to be distracted from that thought by the papery sensation of the bandages under the pads of his fingers, rewrapping them around the upper half of his face with practised hands. When he secures and tucks the end of the bandage into the folds, he straightens up, taking one last look at the man, as if it was a desperate attempt to convince himself that everything would be fine if he went up and talked to the man.

Don't do it. You'll just embarrass yourself.

But what if it's really him.

He betrayed you. He killed his parents and left you.

But what if … it's really him?

You're not supposed to talk to him. You cut contact for a reason.

But I love him.

That was all it took for his carefully-threaded self-restrain to snap. Under the pressure of so many weights, it was bound to eventually.

His palms clap together and in the blink of an eye, he's back in his office, immediately pulling out his phone as his fingers fumble to type out a name he hasn't known in more than a year: 'suguru'.

And there it is. He clicks on the contact; its a completely empty chat, with no messages sent or received. His finger hovers over the phone icon, itching to dial his number up like he once did without a second thought.

He decides, fuck everything, his finger hits the button and he raises the phone to his ear.

It connects after three rings, and he hears a voice that he didn't even know he missed that much until he hears it again, after a solid year of not having it nag him, praise him, laugh at him, laugh with him.

"Satoru?"

"Hey. So, totally random question, but you wouldn't happen to be at a temple in Nagano right about now, or a few minutes ago?"

"...You said you wouldn't call, Satoru."

"Answer the question, Suguru." His breath catches in his throat as he awaits for the other man's response.

His response comes with a dry, unamused chuckle. "Funny, you rarely visit those places. What were you doing there?"

"Curse nearby, decided to go by and pray a little after."

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but im in Kyoto."

Satoru's heart sinks, but why does it? He shouldn't be expecting Suguru to even want to see him anymore; He shouldn't keep his hopes up that Suguru would want to come back to him.

"Okay, great. Cool. See you never, I hate you for becoming a mass murderer without me or whatever, blah blah." He cuts the line as quickly as he dialled it, setting his phone down on the table and sinking into a squishy armchair.

His hands are shaking.

His phone ringing makes him jump out of his seat and a pen holder topple over.

"Satoru."

God, the purr of his name from the other man's voice makes his chest ache.

"...Yes, Suguru?"

He's holding his breath; his lungs burn. He dares not let it go — he's done too much of that already.

"You know we agreed to go no contact for a reason."

And they did. It stung, because they both knew why.

Maybe somewhere out there was a world where Satoru could have his Suguru, where the sun could have its moon, where Saturn could have its rings.

But in this one, they were stuck being two perpendicular lines. Fated to meet once, and then lose each other for the rest of their lives.

"You should be the one standing by my side. Teaching these kids with me."

His voice isn't a plea, he swears, because The Strongest doesn't beg for anyone. Doesn't kneel for anyone.

Suguru has always been his sole exception.

"Yeah?" His light chuckle feels like a heavy weight on his chest.

He does it again. Begs.

"You'd love it here. I got a kid who's exactly like you."

"Fushiguro, hm? If you'd killed my dad, I'd be pretty depressed too."

"You killed him yourself." It slips out before Satoru can think it through. It's bitter, it's angry, it's a pathetic dig.

Suguru's breath pauses, just faintly, but Satoru is keen enough to pick up on it. He knows he's hit a sore spot.

"What do you want out of me, Satoru?"

It's like being handed a loaded gun. Shoot Suguru, or himself?

"I want you to come back, damn it."

His voice is weak, so unlike The Strongest.

"I can't do it without you."

It was true.

And yet, no amount of begging and crying and screaming could rewind the time in their relationship, the same way that it couldn't reverse the hairline cracks from appearing in porcelain vases.

One way or another, they were bound to break, crash, and spill all over the ground, forever irreparable and impossible to put back together.

"You have to."

"I can't."

"There's no other way, Satoru."

"I can't!"

Because was there ever a point to being The Strongest if he would just be alone at the top?

post-fic a/n: back to our regularly scheduled programme! cuz lately it feels like all ive been writing lately is porn so have this gut crushing angst instead

thanks for reading 𑣲⋆ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

"How are ye feelin', my love?" Olruggio murmurs gently into your ear, one spell-worn palm stroking your hip tenderly. His other hand is cupped around your cheek, thumb brushing your flushed cheek.

You hum softly, leaning into the warmth of his hand. Olruggio always ran hotter than most — years of fire magic changes you slowly.

And it was fine. You were feeling all good and well, except…

Olruggio noticed when you slid off his lap to grab your clothes. Usually he'd spend a long time sinply basking in the closeness that being skin-to-skin brought. He'd rub out your sore muscles, kiss every inch of your beautiful skin, reassure you with soft, sweet nothings whispered right in your ear.

Seeing you hurry to cover up all your skin made his heart ache.

"Hey," He mumbled softly, stopping your wrist in its path as it reaches for your t-shirt.

You freeze, and your eyes avert out of habit. Now he knows something's up.

"Princess, yer actin' strange. What's goin' on?" Olruggio's voice is neither reprimand nor scolding, but calming. Easy, slow, the tone one would use to coax a frightened animal.

Right now, he thought you definitely looked like one. Eyes wide, hand trembling, lips pressed together.

"Talk t'me, princess." He whispers, his hands reaching out to pull you against his chest in a firm hug. His arms wrap around your smaller frame— and that's exactly it.

Small. Everything about you was small — limbs, torso, hands, feet, face. Chest. Growing up, you wondered why you never looked like other girls. Late bloomer, your mother had shrugged it off. Always staring enviously at your friends' fuller chests, watching as guys who smiled at them scorned at you. Whispering behind your back constantly, assuming you couldn't hear it. Standing in the mirror, always comparing and comparing and comparing. Just a weird outlier in the graph of girls your age.

Olruggio seems to read the thoughts as they build up bit by bit in your head. "Aye, princess." He tuts, turning you over in his lap to cup both your cheeks; simply .. holding you, like precious porcelain.

"I can see it on yer face, my love." He whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

"Yer doubtin' yerself. Yer beautiful—" A soft kiss, right on your cheekbone.

"Stunning—" Another, over your shoulder.

"Amazing—" Once more, on your sternum.

"Body." The last, pressed gently to your lips.

He pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears. His sapphire eyes are earnest, alight with love and warmth and everything you never thought you'd have.

"I love you for you. I don't care about 'ta shape or size of nothin', princess." Olruggio reassures, taking your hand in his, kissing the inside of your wrist gently.

Your eyesight turns blurry; you're fighting back a sob as you ask, "Are you sure?"

It feels too good to be true. Being ripped away from any notion of somebody loving your body for the way it is, and suddenly having exactly that fall right into your lap.

Olruggio feels a sharp twinge in his chest. Here you are, the most ethereal being he's ever had the luck to lay eyes on, hold you, hug you, kiss you, love you, and you'd let self-doubt and old ghosts beat you down. He knows its normal that you'd be doubtful — it doesn't matter to him. He'll reassure you as many times as you need it.

"Surer than anythin' I've ever known." He whispers tenderly, his usually gruff voice soft. For you, only.

"Promise?" Your question comes out a shaky whisper, so small and scared, so unlike the bubbly, bright woman Olruggio knows.

"Now and forever, my love." He promised gently, before he flips you over on your stomach, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Now, where are you sore?"

You laugh despite yourself, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "Legs, please."

"Aye, princess." He chuckles, his hands already moving to the backs of your thighs and calves. His hands, so skilled with magic, love-worn from inventing, start massaging your tired muscles. Careful not to massage too hard, just enough to soothe them. "How's it feel, my love?"

"Much better." You smile. When he leans in, you turn and catch his lips in a kiss. In a swift movement and a surprised yelp from you, his arms are lacing under your knees and around your shoulders, scooping you up into a carry.

Gentle, so as to not jostle you, he makes his way to the bathroom, setting you down on the counter before he turns the tap on. The bathtub is filled slowly with warm water, pre-adjusted to the right temperature he knows you love. A sprinkle of bath salt later, and he's lowering the both of you into the tub.

You let out a sigh of relief as the warm water envelopes your body, lapping at your skin and soothing the lingering ache in your muscles.

Olruggio smiles at your happy sigh. "Perfect, eh?"

His hands are wrapping around your waist, pulling you to sit between his thighs. Your back meets his chest, and he kisses your nape lovingly.

"Let me take care of ya, my love." He murmurs, lips meeting the soft spot behind your ear.

He pumps a dollop of shampoo into his palms and lathers it gently into your hair, making sure not to tug or pull. You sigh again, nuzzling closer into his warmth.

"Thank you." You whisper into the calm between you two.

Olruggio clicks his tongue. "Nothin' ta thank me over, princess. It's my duty to take care of ya, yer know."

After the bath, he wraps you in a towel, also pre-warmed by one of his inventions, before drying you off with his link rings. Finally, you can curl up in bed beside him — clean, sated, happy.

He pulls you against his chest, spooning you from behind. His breaths are hot as they hit your ear, and you push yourself deeper into his warm embrace.

"Goodnight, my love."

"Goodnight, Olly."

thanks for reading 𑣲⋆ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

You swore Olruggio hadn't come up from between your legs for hours.

His tongue pressed flat against your soaked seam, running up and down your slick folds before going to tease your already puffy clit.

"Olly—" you'd whined, fingers digging into his scalp and tugging hard. He didn't even stop, not caring that the girls could possibly hear you two, not caring that his door had been left just a crack open.

"Hush, lassie. Let me have my treat." He grunted against your thighs, his mouth attached to your pussy like it was stitched to it. "Taste so sweet…"

You whimpered, feeling his wet muscle curl into your drooling cunt, more and more slick gushing out of your tight orifice as he licked and sucked and ate at you like a starved man.

"Olly, stop— the girls—"

"I said hush, didn't I?" He growled, reaching up to press two of his thick, calloused fingers into your mouth, coating them in your spit. He barely gave you another moment's warning before he was pulling his fingers out of your mouth and pressing them past your sopping wet entrance.

You cried out, slamming a palm over your mouth to stifle your noises. If any of the girls saw you two, Qifrey would never let you live it down.

"Easy, sugar.." You heard Olruggio's thick, yorkshire drawl command out, his free hand splaying out on your hip to keep you from bucking wildly. "So wet already. All f'me?"

You nod frantically, your hands flying to claw the sheets. "You— Yes, yes, all for you—"

"Atta girl." He praised, his low baritone making your walls squeeze around his digits. "Aye, someone really liked that, eh?"

Your cheeks burned flaming hot, but you didn't have time to feel embarrassed — not when his fingers were pressing juuuuust right into your sweet spot and his tongue was lapping at your sensitive button.

Olruggio only chuckled at your silence. "Witch got yer tongue?"

You glared at him, though rather half-heartedly. "You haven't had enough? It's almost past midnight."

You see his shoulders rise and fall quickly in a simple shrug, before his head lowers once more and you're being brought back to the throes of pleasure. His fingers seem to know your insides like a map, pinpointing every last sensitive spot and bullying each one just to see tears pool in those pretty eyes of yours, to watch the quiver of your lower lip as you whimper and mumble his name into your own palm.

"Yer getting tighter and wetter, sugar. Are ya close?" Olruggio smirks, his tongue dragging little zigzags back and forth over your poor clit. You jerk uncontrollably, a whine tearing itself from deep in your throat as your eyes flutter.

"Gosh, I could stay here f'hours. Taste ya like breakfast, lunch, and dinner." He groans, doubling his efforts as he dives back in. His fingers are quicker, the thick pads jamming upwards over and over into your sweet spot, the same spot making you whimper and sob and twitch against the sheets. Nothing you couldn't hit yourself, but Olruggio's hands were just so much thicker and longer than yours…

A mean flick of his tongue against your swollen clit brings you back down to reality. "Y'gonna cum, honey? Poor girl and her sweet pussy can't handle a bit o' teasin', can ye?"

You whined yet again, shaking your head. "You're just— you're just mean!"

"Me? Mean?" Olruggio gasped playfully, one hand rubbing soothing circles into your hipbone. The other still moved inside you, reaching and pressing as deep as it could physically go. "I dunno what ye talkin' about. She clearly wants it."

She..? You wonder, and then it hits you — he's talking about your pussy. Making out with her like his life depended on it. You couldn't pull him off even if you tried.

Olruggio sees the way realization clicks in your head, and he cooes mockingly. "What, yer pussy wanted it. She's talkin' t'me sooo sweetly, jus' like this."

He curls his fingers up again, and an embarrassing amount of slick gushes out. His thumb moves to your clit, rubbing insistent circles into the bud, making your body jerk and squirm. You can feel the hot coil of pressure building in your gut, and you fist the sheets harder. "Please, Olly—"

"Please what, princess?" He grunts, not letting up for even a second. Just torturing you through it.

You whimper again, one hand latching onto his dark hair. "Please let me cum, Olly."

"Eh?" He smirks, feigning deaf. "Wha' wazzat?"

You growl, biting your lip. "Please.. Please let me cum."

Olruggio's grin widens, and he leans back in. "Not so hard, was it? Are ya goin' t'be good?"

In the blink of an eye, his tongue licks and laps at your juices, nose bumping into your clit with every hot press of his tongue on your pussy. His fingers speed up, hitting your sweet spot with terrifying accuracy — over and over and over.

A cry spills past your lips, and your back bows off the sheets in an almost perfect geometric arc. "Please— I'll be so good. I'll be really good—"

"Mm, atta girl." He murmured, pressing a soft little kiss right over your pussy lips, before his palm is adding pressure on your abdomen and that tight, hot coil is unraveling like string—

You're squirting before you know it. Hot streams of liquid bursting from your poor, sensitive cunt and making a mess over the sheets and Olruggio's face. He doesn't let up, his tongue licking up every bit of your juice he can get. He groans as he pulls his fingers out of you, pressing them past your kiss-swollen lips. "Clean."

You obey with a moan, tongue swirling around his digits coated with your salty-sweet cream, tasting your release and spit.

He doesn't let you get a breather as he shucks his belt and pants off, large hands already wrapping around your thighs and hauling your pelvis in line with his hips.

"Need t'be inside her.. fuck." He hissed, fisting his erection as he guides the tip to your quivering hole.

Just as he's about to feed the tip in, the door creaks open and shut. The soft click of the door locking rings out in the sudden silence.

And standing in the doorway, arms folded, single azure eye glaring murderously, is Qifrey.

thanks for reading 𑣲⋆ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

You were skimming over your pre-made notes when Satoru finally slid into the seat opposite yours in the study pod, chest heaving and sweat beading on his temple. It was obvious he'd ran the way to the library from his accomodations.

"Tardy isn't a good impression to make." You quipped. He groaned, head falling back on the pod's wall behind him.

"My alarm didn't go off."

You snort. "So you've said."

"I'm sorry, I swear I am. I didn't mean to waste your time like that."

You only hum, deciding that you could grill him about his habits after the session. "Let's get started. We're wasting daylight."

—

You spent the next two hours drilling basic astronomy topics into him, despite the fact that these were all topics he should already know. They were fundamentals!

"Do you just party all week long?" You snapped irritably as he asked another stupid question.

He blinks, clear azure eyes faltering. "I, uh… Yes? No? Pick your favorite out of the two."

Your palm kisses your forehead and you groan. "I really just can't wrap my head around how someone doesn't know these concepts. They're beginner. How did you even end up in Astrophysics?"

"Space is interesting." He shrugs noncommittally.

You can only roll your eyes. "Yeah, so try to absorb some basic astronomy knowledge so I can pull your grades up to passing by mid-terms."

He winks. "Hard to focus when my tutor is so pretty."

Your palm hits the table. "I'm being serious. Focus. Then you can go back to your parties and I can go back to not seeing your face every week."

—

thanks for reading 𑣲⋆ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

His piercer sits him down at his chair, prepping and sterilising equipment. "You know that couple?

Choso huffs. "Not a couple. She doesn't like him very much."

His piercer Suguru Geto, a muscular man with a full left sleeve of tattoos and an equally modified face, snorts.

"She was hissing and spitting at him the whole appointment. Kept on calling her sweet names and she did not like it."

Choso's turn to snort. "Should've heard the conversation I had with her at the cashier last week. Wouldn't stop bitching about the guy."

Suguru grins as he sets a silver tray down in front of Choso. "Strange people. Here, I'll start the procedure."

Choso shuts up and lets Suguru work his magic. The piercer rambles slightly about his week, updates him about stuff that happened since the last time Choso came in (four months ago, for the microdermals at his collarbones.) Mentions clients, school, parties, alcohol, the whole nine yards, all while operating on Choso without so much as a single tremble in his hands.

Choso is nursing a brand new tongue piercing the next time you stroll back into Hot Topic — it glints under the big fluorescent lights as he chats with his coworkers. Your eyes linger more than you'd like to admit.

Two weeks have passed since you last bumped into him outside the piercer's. The clack-clack of your heels against the floor makes his head jerk up quicker than lightning, eyes flickering around until he finds you. "Hey!"

He jogs over, holding out his phone to you. "I, um. I didn't get your name."

He pants slightly as your eyes lower to his flip phone, chipped around the edges and keypad print faded with use.

"You want my name in your contacts?" You ask, your voice dripping with skepticism.

"And your number." He adds, scratching the back of his neck somewhat awkwardly. "If— if you'll let me have it, of course. Uh, and if you don't have a boyfriend."

Please say yes, please say yes…

He watches the way your brows raise slightly, checking every microexpression that passes through your face.

When you reach for his phone, he almost cheers out loud. Your fingertips graze the warm skin of his hand and he blushes, pink raging across his cheeks alllllll the way up to the tips of his ears. He's adorable.

"Here." You hum, offering just the slightest smile as you pass his phone back to him. Choso calls that a huge win.

"Nice piercing, by the way." He hears you add. His eyes scan your contact briefly before stuffing his phone back in his pocket, giving you his full attention.

"Oh, um. Thanks. I got it that day I bumped into you outside the shop." He nodded, his tongue running over his teeth — force of habit.

Your head tilts sideways like it'll help you understand better, like an innocent little puppy. Choso curses himself for thinking like that. "Right. You go often, I'm assuming?" You ask coolly, gesturing to his fully-done ears.

Choso smiles, puffing his chest out just slightly. "Yeah. I'd like to think my piercing stack is pretty cool."

You nod along, genuinely interested. "They look really cool. Hot Topic allows 'em?"

Choso snorts. Hot Topic — well, more like his manager at this branch, to be precise, doesn't give a rat's ass about what goes on his ears. He could show up with a trident through his industrial and safety pins in his lobes and his manager would just ask if he got a haircut.

"They're lax on uniform." Is all he says.

At that point, he notices a scuffle in the corner with two customers fighting over something, and he decides chat time is up. Everyone else is on break, so it's really just up to him. If it was his choice, he'd let them fight it out because he doesn't get paid nearly enough to care. But he also kind of pities his manager and doesn't exactly want to make more trouble for the guy after he comes back from his break.

"Browse around, I'll meet you at the cashier." He waves, heading over to the two fighting customers. He watches you linger around the store, but you don't seem to be browsing the merch.

No, you seem to be eyeing him. Gazing at him like he's a piece of tantalizing candy, like a predator sizing up prey. A slight shiver rolls down his spine, whether from fear or anticipation he doesn't quite know yet.

At the cashier, he rings up your stuff — which, after twenty minutes of browsing, totals up to be: a single lollipop. What?

"Uh, that's... all?"

"Mhm." You hum innocently as you pull out your card. "So you'll text me tonight right?"

Choso almost drops the lolly, his eyes wide. His coworker is standing right there, staring at him with the same shock in his own eyes. Choso? Getting asked to text someone?

Choso's mouth opens. Then closes again. Open, close, like a blubbering fish.

"Right?" You bat your lashes slightly and oh, how pathetically weak he is for you. The churning in his stomach was from the energy drink he chugged with no food this morning. Totally not because you were asking him to text you, no! Not at all.

"Uh." He says. Very eloquent, Kamo. Great job.

You pout slightly, a small crease forming between your brows. "You won't?"

"No! I— I will, of course I will." He corrects hastily, practically desperate. This was his golden opportunity: he couldn't fumble this.

"Great! Talk to you later." The smile on your lips makes Choso hold the counter just to stop his knees from giving out.

"Y— Yeah. Later." He stammered out, watching the sway of your hips as you walked off.

Fuck.

"Oh my god, Choso." His coworker drawls monotonously. "Close your mouth, you're practically drooling everywhere."

Choso still isn't down to earth yet. The ringing in his ears silences everything else that isn't his thoughts. Quickly, he fumbles around in his pocket for his phone.

(y/n)(l/n)

+ xx-xxx-xxx-x

He actually laughs. It feels unreal. You actually gave him your number.

Choso bribes his coworker to handle the closing shift alone. $30, and he'll cover for them for a shift. After his shift ends, he grabs his bag from the storage and sprints to his car, tossing his bag haphazardly into the passenger seat as he fumbles with his phone.

He stares. For a long time. Should he text again? Would he look too clingy if he did?

Just as he's debating if he should risk his dignity for a third text, his phone buzzes.

He almost launches his phone into the backseat. Breathe. Breathe.

Oh, god. Was that too casual? Was it not casual enough? Was it awkward?

He watches the little 'Seen' appear on the bottom of the text, and the three dots bounce around the screen.

What.

You're asking him for rides?

His mind is blank for a good few minutes. Hell, chauffeuring you around would mean seeing you more. Seeing you in his car. In his space! It's a direct excuse to spend more time with you.

thanks for reading 𑣲⋆ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

It's a dreary Tuesday on summer break when Choso first spots you. You, dressed head to toe in designer clothes, a lacy pink bra making a bold appearance over the scoop of your hot pink tank top. Your heels clack coldly on the tiled floor as you glance around, very obviously out of your element; Like a fish out of water, Choso realised with slight amusement. He watches a little longer as your eyes drift around, before locking onto him like a predator spotting prey. In an instant, you're already standing in front of him, a hand on your hip.

"Where can I find the emo band tees?"

Huh? Choso blinks, clearing his throat. "Uh.. Right over that side." He points to the general corner where all the band tees were stocked. "Any band in particular, ma'am?"

Your eyes glance him up and down, glossed lips curling into a slight frown; he feels like a painting being appraised. "No. Just need something mainstream so it looks like I care."

"Right over there, and turn left." He says dutifully, trying to will away the slight tremor in his voice. He couldn't help it! Girls like you were always intimidating to him, all glammed up even on a boring day and all. He would admire the dedication to the look if he weren't some moments away from sweating all his water intake right out.

"Thanks.. Choso." You say, glancing at his nametag. In a whip of silky hair and vanilla perfume, you were gone.

Choso didn't see you again until you came back with some shirts at the checkout counter.

"Surely these shirts aren't for you?" He murmured curiously, ringing up the three faded black shirts. Evanescence. Pretty safe choice for any newbie punk, I guess.

"Nope." He heard the disinterested reply. "Dumbass guy I'm talking to. He's a 'punk'." And yes, you'd made quotation marks with your fingers.

Choso couldn't hold back an incredulous eyeroll. "Explains the Evanescence shirts, I guess."

He saw your eyes rake him up and down again — you seemed to do that a lot — and you glanced up from your phone. "You seem like you'd know a lot about that."

He paused in bagging up the shirts. He was used to people telling him that, given his outward appearance: black hair, fully pierced ears. a face tattoo that ran over the bridge of his nose and ended in the middle of both cheeks. chipped black polish on his fingernails; not to mention the jingling of multiple silver chains hooked around his neck and on his jean loops. He was used to condescending, to rude and snobby and 'I'm better than you because I like colour and don't dress like a concert and a funeral bundled into one'.

What he wasn't used to, however, was the simple curiosity in your tone. Not judgemental and sassy, just wondering.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I do. I like listening to those bands." He nodded, stuffing the last shirt into the paper bag. His hands hovered. Oh, right.

"Card?"

"Yeah." You pulled out a shiny black card from your wallet, tapping it on the reader. Just as Choso thought you would tuck the card away and leave, you spoke up again. "So, you're really into those bands and all? Like, you're actually punk?"

He paused, then nodded again, twin ponytails bobbing with how vigorously he was moving his head. "Yeah, the aesthetic and all."

You nod, appraising him yet again with your eyes. "You look like you'd kill a punk runway. Not like the guy I'm talking to anyway."

He watches your pretty eyes roll under chunky pink glittered eyelids, and he almost grins. "Yeah? He's a poser?"

"Tell me about it. He says he's 'punk', but he dresses sooo preppy. His clothes are black, but they're still branded and button-downs. Like, hello?"

Choso's eyes do another 360. "That's the absolute opposite of punk. You couldn't go any further from punk."

You chatter on about more of your gripes and complaints, but all Choso can think about is the sugary sweet scent wafting towards him, how your skin looks so soft and unblemished, what it would feel like to run his fingers through your silken strands, how your glossed lips would taste like. Maybe some fruit chapstick— though he wouldn't know what flavor of chapstick girls like anyway.

"So, I'll get going." He hears you say, and he snaps back to attention.

"Wait!"

You turn back, brow furrowed.

"Uh. Sorry, it's.. nothing." He fumbles, feeling his cheeks heat up. You walk off, and he feels a pang of regret. He should've asked for a name, or a MySpace handle, or— or something! Now you're leaving and he's not sure if he'll see you again.

It seemed that the universe had a real good sense of humor. Barely a week later, he sees you exiting the local piercing shop — the same one he's practically a regular at due to his numerous body modifications.

He drinks you in. You've opted for a tight, pastel miniskirt and knee-high white stockings to go with blocky pink pumps. The print of words on your white henley makes him bite back a laugh: "I make men cry".

He's just about to approach you, wondering if maybe he could finally get your number, when a guy ducks out of the shop stuffing his wallet back into the pocket of his pristine black jeans. A wave of irrational irritation pools deep in Choso's gut. Who the hell was this John Doe?

The guy smirks down at you, all unbridled confidence that your average college jock is full of. He looks like he'd be one of those, Choso gripes to himself. His eye twitches. Here he'd expected to have a nice day. Seeing this guy standing beside you is a day— no, a week-ruiner.

His hand is on the handle of the piercing shop's door when your voice rings out. "Hey, I remember you. You're the cute Hot Topic guy."

He freezes, but tries not to let it show as he turns around. "Hey. Yeah, it's, uh.. it's me again."

His mind draws a blank. Fuck, he didn't get your name.

The guy standing beside you looks disgruntled. "Babe, who's this?"

He opens his mouth to— to what, actually? Defend you? Tell him who he is? Bitch about how he shouldn't call you babe because he's pissing Choso off?

You roll your eyes, pink-glossed lips curving into an annoyed frown — and it clicks in Choso's head instantly.

This was the punk poser you complained about last time.

Choso's eyes rake him up and down; he's even wearing one of the Hot Topic shirts Choso rang up for you.

"Don't call me that when we're out, remember? I told you." Your irritated voice snaps through the silence like a gunshot. "He's just a familiar face. Chill out."

You may as well have just fired a bullet through Punk Poser's chest; the poor guy was looking at you like a pathetic puppy. He mumbles something about relationships and if your eyes could roll any further, they'd have popped out of your eye sockets along with the copious amounts of glitter on your eyes. It's evident to Choso that you really can't stand this guy.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" He decides to break up what is possibly a brewing fight. "Didn't mark you as the piercings type."

John Default besides you speaks up. "It was me. I got pierced today. Officially cool."

Choso doesn't comment on the way you cringe, your hand clenching so hard into a fist that he can see your perfectly manicured nails digging crescent marks into your own palm.

"Yeah? What'd you pierce?" Choso ventures carefully.

Punk Poser proudly puffs his chest out. Choso'd think he just conquered Mount Everest or something.

"Double lobes."

The way you actually hide your face in your palms makes Choso grin. "Real tough, big man. Double lobes."

"Thanks, man. It's total rebellion, 'cuz my mom says I'm like, only allowed one piercing on each ear. Ha." He says, the grin on his face pure smugness.

"Sorry, you're probably busy. See you around." You force a smile and practically pull Lorem Ipsum along with you. Choso can almost see the steam rising from your head. He chuckles to himself and lets himself into the shop, before realising—

Or your name!

Fuck. He didn't manage to get your number. Again. Damn it.

thanks for reading 𑣲⋆ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆