👩🏼‍💻

why would they? it’s just Gojo and his signature headphones again—those reliable green ones with the cord disappearing into his pocket, plugged firmly into his white xperia. just another lazy afternoon for the campus golden boy, soaking up the warmth like he has all the time in the world. with his dark sunglasses shielding those crystal blue eyes, he looks less like a student dozing peacefully between classes and more like someone who wandered straight out of a college brochure: effortlessly handsome, impossibly relaxed, the kind of person the admissions office plasters easily across every poster.

a picture-perfect student.

but pouring into his ears isn’t his usual playlist—it’s you. or the video you recorded just for him last night, to be precise. the wet, filthy sounds are unmistakable—obscene squelches of your drenched pussy as you plunge two fingers deep inside yourself, pumping faster, harder, the lewd noises echoing with every thrust.

“Satoru… haa—yes, right there,” you moan on the recording, voice cracking with desperation. the audio captures everything in raw detail: the breathy gasps, the messy glide of your fingers through your soaking folds, the rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick that grows louder as you chase your release.

a contented hum escapes him as the clip keeps playing, a low thrum of arousal pooling hot in his gut. his cock stirs eagerly against the front of his slacks, but he doesn’t bother hiding the lazy shift of his hips as he settles more comfortably. the smirk on his face deepens, a stark contrast to the peaceful image he’s currently projecting to the world; here he is, in broad daylight on a bustling college campus, secretly listening to his needy girlfriend finger-fucking herself. no one can hear your sloppy rhythm, or your cock-hungry moans, or how you gasp his name as you come; those wired headphones keep his perversion perfectly hidden.

it puts him in the best mood—energized, cocky, ready to crush the rest of the day. it has him buzzing with anticipation, already picturing later when he’ll see you in person. he has something delicious to look forward to: teasing you about the video, making you recreate those sounds live, watching you fall apart under his hands.

he doesn’t move when the audio loops back to the beginning. instead, he just sits there, letting the filtered sunrays warm his pale face as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

a group of guys from his quantum physics class wanders by, lifting a hand the moment they spot him. “Gojo! new playlist?”

if only they fucking knew.

he barely plucks one earbud out, flashing them a grin that doesn’t betray a thing. “yeah… something special. really hits the spot.” his voice is casual, effortless, and they laugh as they continue across the courtyard, none the wiser.

classic Gojo, they think.

back in those headphones, your voice hits that peak again—“Satoru, I’m… hmph, fuck!”—followed by a flood of pure ecstasy as you come hard, fingers burying deeper as your pussy clenches and gushes around them.

Gojo lets out a quiet, satisfied breath as he tips his head farther back against the rough bark, exposing the long column of his throat. his adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow while the recording starts over once more.

yeah… if only they knew.

1 NEW MESSAGE baby’s first jjk post. kinda nervous. gulp. hey y’all…

And that was the story of how you met Gojo Satoru - when you were eight, and he’d been merely ten. Though he didn’t look ten—he might’ve looked even younger than you. 

White hair. Winks of dimples upon each cheek. His face was chalk-white from the make-up typical of jesters, even young ones, supposedly. 

He was drowning in a faded red and blue jester outfit that looked as if it’d been dragged through multiple shows a night. It looked far too big to have been his originally. Even through the patched-up collar, his collarbones showed, and from the too-wide sleeves; his pale, near-skeletal limbs stuck out oddly. 

His face was pretty, however, with eyes too large for his head. 

Gojo’s cheeks were sunken in, yet his smile wasn’t the slightest bit smaller. That, too, looked too large to be his. 

And you…

Crying outside the royal court, after your parents had declared you far too young to see the travelling circus. The acrobats. The sword-swallowers. And one little jester…that had gone missing during the processions. 

Though, in time, Gojo took delight in weaving in additional parts of fighting off dragons and two haunted knight armors—enraptured courts that clapped and laughed as he sang of a white-haired fool and his crying princess. He’d whisked you off your feet and made you swoon in ways a princess utterly shouldn’t - and then produced you before your horrified father, His Majesty, as the sole suitor that made you laugh. 

At least according to him.

Though one thing was true from that fairytale: Gojo had been the only person to make you laugh. The only one.

Previous jesters and palace acts wavered between confusing you with their overly long ballads, or enraging you - all because they assumed some little princess couldn’t handle humor. And maybe that was why - Gojo hadn’t underestimated you - that you’d gone right up to your father in the middle of a particularly splendid fire-breathing act, stood in the center of the lavish floor, and declared—

For Gojo to be released from the circus to become your personal jester.

As a royal jester he would be clothed, bathed, and tutored alongside you - so long as he kept you entertained with his rhymes (to which you had no doubt that he wouldn’t falter). 

Not minister nor royal guest should lay a hand on him. He was to be treated as an equal member of the court, and should have titles bestowed upon him in due time—but for now, he will grow up as your best friend. Your only.

And whilst declaring this in about as much royal haughtiness as you could have managed, you looked over at Gojo. You don’t remember for what reason. You don’t remember what you were looking for.

All you remember is that Gojo’s eyes seemed brighter in that moment, like the night’s cloak of stars. There were tears in his eyes.

And he flashed you his crooked grin.

You grinned back.

His Majesty and the advisors didn’t take long to mull over the thought before asking the circus master to name his price for the boy. And Gojo had been small then - oh-so-small - a mere waif of a boy. He was clearly the youngest amongst these adults, and the circus master hadn’t even remembered he was part of the troupe.

He’d demanded two crowns and a bag of wheat.

To which The King had obliged with a simple wave of his hand—before freeing the other circus members, as well. He was merciful…most of the time.

And you’d been so overcome with joy that you ran to the jester and took his hands then and there.

Had it been in the little passageway where you’d met, then you might even have embraced him.

But perhaps you’d given the ministers enough conniptions for the day?

“Follow me.” You breathlessly whispered to the little jester that seemed far too shocked for words. “I shall summon the royal tailor whilst you take your bath- we have every fragrance in the land, and more than enough botanical springs.”

But the longer he stayed speechless and unmoving, the more self-conscious you grew.

Your fingers loosened around his, “That…that is if you wish to-”

“I do.” He stopped you from slipping away - he clasped your hands even tighter. Tight enough to nearly hurt—but you didn’t stop him. “I-I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

“You shan’t have to call me that.”

And though a few eavesdropping court ladies and gentlemen gasped at the destruction of long-held social etiquette, Gojo had merely smiled and nodded. And then you’d been the one to whisk him away. 

You.

Gojo shared little about his upbringing that first day in the palace, and even less over the years. You knew that he’d been born into an average family just a kingdom over - Gojo itself was a fairly used name - but tragedy struck and his parents both passed away—although you never asked how, and he never shared why. It almost…seemed as if he didn’t remember. A part of him that had scrubbed out most of those years, like a bloodstain.

And he’d lived in the same lifeless home as them for five days. Trying to wake them.

No one listened.

No one arrived.

No one helped.

No one helped.

No one helped.

Driven by hunger and loneliness, Gojo finally left the house after those five days. And just his fortune, he hadn’t walked long before encountering the travelling circus—so many jugglers and jesters and acrobats and fire-breathers. And one master leading them from the front. 

He’d been both enraptured and scared.

And hungry. So…so hungry.

Even the smell of the lion food was appetizing to him. 

One acrobat passing by had spotted the boy watching wide-eyed from the side of the road, and seeing how desperate he was, shared her lunch and invited him to join. It was the biggest act of kindness he’d felt in five days.

And so he taught himself to rhyme. To joke. To smile. 

And two years later was when you saved him- you told Gojo that it wasn’t so much as saving him than him saving you. But he denied. 

“Thank you.” Gojo had whispered to you, almost fearful, during his first night in the palace. The Princess’s jester had been granted quarters right across the hallway from your own chambers—and yet, the first night was always the scariest, wasn’t it? 

He’d given you quite the fright sneaking into your royal chamber after all the candles had been snuffed and your attendants had left. Soundless as a mouse—and looking just as unwelcome inside the gilded bedroom. But eventually, you welcomed him onto the lavish mattress far too large for even two.

Let alone two children.

Laid a fair distance apart, you faced each other. 

“I forbid you to say those words again, Gojo.” You smiled. “And just for the one night, I trust?” You meant the bed-sharing; should your attendants walk upon this in the morning, then Gojo would be thrown into the dungeons faster than he can rhyme. 

Gojo nodded, somewhat flushed. “Just for the one night.”

.

.

.

“Satoru-”

“Mmmm, puff pastries and wagashi.”

“Satoru.”

“Huh? Ohhh, sweet cheesecake.”

“Sato—” The exasperated call of his name doesn’t land before the kick does - square in the middle of Gojo Satoru’s broad back. 

Sometime in the last few years, after he’d taken up training with General Yaga to keep himself fit for his dances, Gojo had started sleeping without his upper garments on. 

And you couldn’t deny that it was a sight for sore eyes; his sun-freckled sun, the dips and curves of his muscles shifting as he did. The roundness of his deltoids. The sensual curve of his spine. The patterns of his scapulae, and lash marks that he wouldn’t explain. They moved like waves of an ocean, and they peaked and fell just as much. Some mornings you dared to trace every single one—just with your eyes, of course. 

But of course, he was just your best friend - socially, your jester, at that.

Which is exactly why you’re kicking him off the bed the second you hear your morning attendants heading down the corridor. As soon as he’s out of sight, the double doors to your bedroom open—and they’re floating inside with steaming-hot trays of breakfast and new fragrances for your skin. 

One of the attendants sets the breakfast tray down on your bedside table, and you sneak him a few of the blueberry-spotted pancakes. Though have to slap Gojo’s hand away from swiping the syrup, too, before one of them sees.

“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Your head attendant, Utahime, trills as she throws the curtains open to let soft morning sunlight flood inside. “The perfect morning.”

“It is.” You’re nodding. You slap Gojo’s hand away from the syrup again.

“And we have no more than an hour to get you ready, Your Highness. So I beg you to finish your tea quickly.” Another attendant hands you your morning tea - just how you liked it. It smelled of something floral that reminded you of the royal gardens, and something else so utterly appetizing that you could feel Gojo huffin’ and puffing about beneath you.

Served him right for sneaking in again, you think.

You slap Gojo’s hand away again. Utahime continues speaking onwards obliviously, “—prepare for the guest.”

“A guest?” That piques your interest. 

This time, Gojo steals the syrup. And it creates a loud clatter that draws the attention of all the attendants sweeping and scurrying about to pick out your gown for the day—you’re unceremoniously coughing to cover it up. You’re not sure it works.

Utahime crinkles her nose, “Nasty little ailment, isn’t it?” Her intelligent eyes dip down to the bed - though she keeps it discreet. Utahime, as well as being your head attendant, was one of your closest friends as well. 

Close to you in age, you’d hand-picked her to be what was essentially your right-hand woman. 

And she knew of the rather…close friendship that you and Gojo had; perhaps improper for court etiquette, but just right for the two of you. 

From underneath the bed, Gojo snickers. 

You bounce on the mattress, whilst Utahime kicks the bed post. 

“Ah…this ancient bed.” You’re commenting once the other attendants look at you with raised brows, “Honestly, sometimes I believe it to be haunted.”

“Wake up to a mysterious figure at your bedside, do you?” Utahime eyes you. You avert your gaze from hers. “Well, we should do well to rid your chambers of that before the Prince arrives, Your Highness.”

“The Prince?”

“Prince Zenin Naoya, of course.”

Gojo knocks his head on the bed frame. 

.

.

.

Prince Zenin Naoya possessed many titles; the latest one being the most unpleasant royal you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Which was saying rather a lot.

You’ve met many a-princess that were appalling to her attendants, and many princes that boasted their numerous wars. Your father himself fell into the latter group. And many, many more dukes and duchesses and marquis—and whatever other title had surfaced over the last few centuries and gotten latched-onto with rabid, golden-ringed claws. Had it not been for your duty to maintain a peaceful political climate, you would have forgone those social gatherings altogether.

Though your father was particularly careful not to repeat the border strife that had occurred not too long ago in your kingdom…some violence-seeped dispute over power. 

And so you lifted your head and plastered a smile.

You managed to clamor through even the most painful of social obligations.

But this one…this one might just force you to rewrite all the royal rules that had been drilled into you since you were younger. 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You nod in acknowledgement as the Prince bows. His coronet was made of pure gold; a simple band with a blood-red ruby in the middle. 

It flashed at you menacingly.

And so did his pearly-white smile. 

“The pleasure is all yours, Your Highness.” 

You’re taken aback at his choice of words. You meet Gojo’s eyes a little ways away from the court- and his read the same confusion. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Then Naoya turns to the King seated on the throne beside you instead. His smile leers, “My utmost gratitude for this invitation, Your Majesty. My parents send their regards.”

“Good people, good people.” Your father nods, “Their assistance during…those times of trouble shall forever remain in my memory.”

“Who are we if not united against the face of the radicals, Your Majesty?” Naoya graciously bows once more. 

“Well said.” And then the King makes a sweeping gesture in your direction. “And in the future, it seems we shall be united once more.”

Naoya throws his gaze at you again, and the way he looks at you…it makes you hug your arms to yourself.

You’re unsure why your gaze had been upon Gojo at that very moment - they always did seem to find him - but you watch as his expression darkens. Darkens. Darkens. In a way you’ve never seen before, and then it’s hitting you—

“Father?”

But he ignores you, “Satoru—!” In the years that you’ve brought Gojo to court, your father had become rather fond of his rhymes and riddles as much as you were. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that he had been called upon, and Gojo’s expression switches instantly into one of foolish mirth. “Why don’t you share one of your amusing rhymes with our guest?”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply. As he makes his way to the middle of the court, where Naoya and his entourage were gathered, the bells upon his blue-and-white garments jingle. 

And before you know it, Gojo clasps onto Naoya’s shoulders and ensnares him with his words. “Naoya o’ Naoya, with your great riches and gait.” The corners of his lips twitch - something sharp. Gojo covers his mouth in a faux-whisper, though his words reach every single corner of the vast chamber. “Every lady here knows you take potions to compensate~”

Naoya’s face turns green then red. A furious red.

As if fearing the Prince would swing, Gojo jumps back- just in time for the hay-blond man to whirl around. “But oh, no potion shall make Prince Naoya’s rooster big—the most you ladies get will be the size of a fig~”

The jester laughs maniacally, and so does much of the court; you yourself can’t stop from letting out a startled laugh or two. 

Your best friend never did hold back - perhaps because he was the only one allowed to do so without fearing the threat of the dungeons. 

And Gojo watches as a giggle slips past the hand you’d brought up to cover your mouth- and his grin widens as he takes it as a challenge. Dancing around Naoya, he continues—

“Naoya is hated by the ladies of the court. Naoya is hated in his medical reports~” He trills gleefully, darting a hand out and knocking Naoya’s coronet off. “And all the ladies and all the healers, have never seen a cock this short~”

Red face now turning almost…a sickly yellow, Naoya attempts to fist-fight the jester. Though Gojo was far more agile than he looked, and he was dodging each hit with ease.

“Oh—have I offended you, Your Highness? Perhaps a change of pace…” Gojo crows. “For all Naoya hates women, he might as well court men-”

“You- you—”

“Easy, son.” Your father chuckles to himself as well, “You should do good to familiarize yourself with the Princess’s jester if you are to marry her.”

Gojo stutters- and his rhyme pauses. His eyes widen.

You feel the red, red carpet give out beneath you. 

.

.

.

“I simply must…apologize for Sato- my jester, Your Highness.” 

The clinking of silverware fortunately masked the waver in your tone. It was insincere and unapologetic.

Naoya maintains an expression as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant, perhaps as if it was on his very plate. The Prince cuts into his bird with far too much force than necessary, “Apology accepted.” Rather short.

Though you yourself didn’t care—you shoot a look at the ministers that were currently attempting to meld into the royal portraits on the wall. 

With nervous smiles, they urge you to continue.

It was a poor imitation of a romantic dinner - as romantic as a political marriage could get. 

The royal dining room had a table that sprawled nearly from one end-to-end. Polished mahogany. Intricately-carved legs. So thick that they didn’t buckle under the hundreds of dishes piled on top: soups to puddings to heart-shaped wagashi to those you couldn’t even name. Woven in-between were flickering candles and vases of red, red roses—sprouting confessions of love. 

Some of those petals were even scattered across the floor.

Though the dining room could seat about four-hundred guests, right now it only seated him and you. You and your future husband.

Your future husband.

Your future husband.

Your future husband.

It still hadn’t sunk in, and you didn’t want it to.

Zenin Naoya takes a bite of his roasted bird and spits it back out. From his entourage, one of the Zenin ministers darts out with a dish to collect it.

You wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Two courts were watching this fallacy of courtship. 

From your side, it was the entirety of your court save for some of the outer ladies-in-waiting and some gents, and your parents. From his side, it was Naoya’s entire entourage at his every beck, call, and swallow. Just waiting for the opportunity that their beloved Prince didn’t like anything.

Which seemed to be…everything.

You yourself can only pick at the delicacies on your plate - they’d done well to include favorites of both you and His Highness. And yet…

And yet, in the past eighteen years you’ve never sat through a dinner without Gojo at your side. 

Always at your right-hand seat. Always chomping through his dinner with overexaggerated noises that made you laugh, and the ministers grimace.

How could you feel so alone surrounded by so many people, and yet lacking one?

You’re biting back a sigh.

“Pssst.”

Confused, you look up at Naoya- but he seems just as morbidly indulgent in his food as he was before. He was spitting out even more. 

And so you look around—but none of the ministers nor advisors catch your eye, either.

“Psssssst.”

There it was again. Somewhat irritated and feeling your confusion growing - this dinner certainly hadn’t put you in a good mood - you’re about to excuse yourself from this social hostage-situation. Someone must be attempting to make a fool out of you. You’re resting your hands on the polished table and about to push off—

When you feel something…touch your wrist.

You’re about to scream-

“Tamper your screaming, please.” 

Oh, well if they asked so nicely…

Wait-

Who?

Without making too much of a spectacle, you slide your fork off the edge of the table. 

Naoya grumbles at the metallic ringing—and muttering a dainty apology, you’re leaning down to pick it up. Or so it seems. 

Instead, you’re crouching yourself down and lifting the tablecloth ever-so-slightly. It’s a purple velvet, one of the finest in the land, and it opens up to reveal one of the greatest treasures this palace held. At least, in your opinion.

Gojo Satoru brings a finger up to his lips and winks. His make-up crinkling handsomely as he did so, “Do you frequent these parts?”

“I should ask the same from you.” You hiss, glancing around to make sure that no one was looking. “Satoru, what do you think you’re doing-”

“Exercising my culinary skills, my princess.” And he raises up a little velvet packet in one hand, shaking it around tantalizingly. He answers your question before you can voice it, “Just a little horseshoe, just a little wool from Yaga’s sweater, and perhaps the Prince that swallows this shall be a little sweeter~”

Your jaw drops. “You cannot be serious-”

“Never in my life have I been more serious.” Gojo replies solemnly, then with an innocent flutter of his lashes- “Forgive me for not sharing, my princess. But perhaps you would favor it as well?”

“It shan’t suit my palate.” You answer firmly.

“It’s far more palatable than what I did to the wine, trust me.” Gojo smirks.

“You rouge.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Naoya’s tone grates through the little bubble of mirth you’d formed—in less than a minute, no less. “Wife- wife.”

You and Gojo stare at one another in shock.

Wife?

One of your ministers coughs pointedly, and with a final glance at Gojo, you’re straightening in your chair. “Were you perhaps addressing…me, Your Highness?” And any smart man would have quickly backtracked at this opportunity to change their answer. 

But you never claimed that Zenin Naoya was particularly smart. “My eyes don’t perceive any other woman here?” He scoffs, taking a bite of a chicken leg and then immediately spitting it out—“As for the engagement plans- eugh.”

You’re biting back a laugh as he drags out a string - seemingly from a wool…sweater…of Yaga’s - from his mouth and looks at his ministers in bewilderment. 

“Th-the chef must have been in a state of pioneering.” You cough out.

Another bite he takes.

And another wad of wool he spits out. 

You bring a hand up to your lips, “Perhaps you should wash it down with the wine, Your Highness? It had been brewed specifically for this occasion.”

And so he does - eyeing you all the while.

Naoya takes a big swig of his goblet and—shrieks as he finds half of a shoe inside. 

One of Gojo’s very own.

That shriek is loud enough to make the walls of the dining chamber rattle; and Gojo shoots out from the side of the dining table, unable to keep his laughter in control, and dances away. “Twiddle dee, twiddle doo—Naoya coughed up a shoe~” Those double doors are still swinging as it sinks in what just happened- and your ministers and guards take a menacing step towards where the colorful intruder had disappeared. 

You raise your hand to signal them to halt.

“This insolent—” Naoya was spitting with fury- unable to even formulate words. His mouth is a downturned slash, and he shoves the plate off the table. It shatters vociferously.

You notice that he’s turned a little green in the way he only seemed to do when Gojo was nearby. “My first order as King shall be to rid this incompetent kitchen-” He spits. “-and that godforsaken jester-”

Your fork clatters to the floor once again. “What’s wrong with Satoru?” You didn’t care if you sounded rather too offended by such a question. “Is it the practical jokes? I shall request that he ceases such-”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Naoya cackles to himself. “Woman, what is there not wrong about that goddamn fool? He’s- he’s—a fool.”

“For that is his duty, is it not?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“I suppose.” Naoya leans back in his chair, “But his duty is to the crown, and when I am King-”

“His duty is to me.” Before you know it, you’re standing. You’re breathing hard. You’re ignoring the ministers that attempt to hold you back. “He’s my best fri—jester.”

And you repeat…though you don’t know whether it’s more for yourself, Naoya, or the boy with the blue eyes that was once underneath the table.

“He’s mine.”

Those words fall like the blade of a guillotine. 

Naoya’s eyes were spitting fire. “He’s…yours, is it?” He throws his cape back and stands, “Your Highness…I fail to understand why you entangle yourself with a mere jester?” Though the sentence itself wasn’t one particularly barbed, his distaste bled through every syllable. 

“He- he is my best friend-”

“He is a jester.” Naoya says with a tone of finality. He pushes back, letting the chair clutter behind him- the brings up a palm to stop his ministers from righting it. “And a jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”

Those footsteps of his resound louder than your heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

On the way to making his exit, he stops before the entrance and speaks. “We are to be engaged in six moons, and when you are my wife, I expect you to act like one.” Naoya’s gaze is deadly as he grips the door open, “My family earned our titles bringing down entire households- a mere jester is nothing to me.”

Another guillotine: this time, it’s the closing of the dining room doors.

“Your Highness-”

But you’re following Naoya out, and tears burn behind your eyes.

Just as luck - or perhaps fate - would have it, who else had been standing behind the doors listening to every word? None other than Gojo Satoru. 

Though his face is downturned, and you can’t make out his expression, your heart soars at the sight of him. He’s pressed against one of the walls closest to the doors, and he clenches his fists at his sides. And you’re just about to reach out- to tell him that Naoya’s words didn’t matter- to tell him that Naoya didn’t matter—

But before you could, Gojo sharply turns to you and bows. Those bells atop his hat jingle as he does so, and he stays bowed as he asks, “This fool begs to be dismissed, Your Highness?”

Your Highness? “You…you may…” Your brows furrow, fingers trembling towards him. “But Satoru-”

And yet, he’s gone.

And you didn’t get a single look at his expression.

You wondered what you would see. You wondered what you would be hoping to see.

But no matter what it was, you knew that all you wanted to see - whether anger or mirth or irritation - was Gojo himself. 

Your engagement was in six moons.

.

.

.

To your dismay, Gojo Satoru was avoiding you.

You should have realized that something was off that moment after the disastrous dinner—or perhaps when he didn’t join you to sleep, or perhaps when he hadn’t joined court in the following days. According to one of the palace staff, the jester was ill, but every attempt at a visit to his quarters ended up with you being rebuffed or diverted.

And how many opportunities for diversion there were.

The palace was a-flush with florists, and bakers, and candle-makers, and mask-designers—and orchestras upon orchestras practising for your engagement waltz. 

One of those times you’d been dragged away to floral-picking for the grand engagement ball - the one that would announce your union to the entire kingdom. Another time it had been to pose for a portrait with Naoya (a particularly taxing endeavour). And another time it was to pick out the colors for your mask- this was to be an extravagant masquerade ball after all. And another time it had been to get fitted for the ballgown you’d be wearing for the night—like exactly right now.

This time, you’d gotten just past the guards stationed upon either side of Gojo’s chambers (both on his word, and to prevent the Princess from getting into any…scandalous affairs before the engagement).

And you’d cracked open the door - ever-so-slightly - only to find that what was inside…made you halt.

Gojo’s room was completely and utterly empty.

Not just of himself, but of his literature books, his shoes, his bells, his flower vases. Anything and everything that made the chamber so utterly Gojo’s, was gone. Even the braid of friendship you wove for him when you were twelve - that he kept at the very top of his jewelry box - and the flower crowns you made for him that he dried and hung from his windows—you made them rather often, before…Naoya. 

He had intruded upon your idle dance between love and friendship - and you were still feeling bitter and confused as Utahime fitted you. As she wound up the hip springs of your corset- and tightened, and tightened—

“I just fail- hah, fail to understand.” You’re muttering, slightly out-of-breath.

Utahime looks up from the knots of your corset, “Your Highness?”

The royal tailor had just stepped out to aid in bringing the imported silk and cloth of gold up to your bed chambers, and in the meantime your attendants were helping tighten your numerous layers underneath. Your ballgown - engagement dress, more precisely - would be fitted on top of the base linen undergarments and the crinolines. 

Tonight, you will be engaged.

And to a man that has never made you laugh once-

“Your Highness?” Utahime repeats, snapping you out of your little reverie.

“Oh- forgive me.” You nod at her in acknowledgment. “What I meant to say was, I just fail to understand what he’s thinking.”

She nods back - you didn’t have to specify who. “It is precisely as I have told you, Your Highness.” Utahime tightens a few more knots- knocks a few more breaths out of you. “That ol’ nuisance has not a single thought in his mind. You must not worry yourself too much about him.”

“Oh, but Utahime…how can I not?” You’re sure the flurry of other attendants surrounding you were listening in - smoothing down your layers, preparing your jewelry. But you didn’t care at the moment, if you did say so yourself. 

“I believe it is just a little ailment, Your Highness. I fear I am not blessed enough for such a thing to prove fatal to that jester-”

You gulp. “I believe Satoru may be avoiding me.”

At that, even Utahime’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”

“His chambers have been emptied of even the flower crowns, and I haven’t even the faintest glimpse of him these past few days.” Speaking these words aloud seems to make them too real. “I believe I told you of how he overheard the conversation between Naoya and I?”

Utahime nods.

“Naoya had uttered some things- balderdash, if you ask me—” Your fists threaten to clench, but two attendants were working on your nails. Another was double-checking the measurements for your mask. Mask. “Yet I fear Satoru may have misconstrued some things…and I haven’t laid eyes on him ever since.”

There’s a silence.

Her fingers finish their final knot.

And then Utahime stands to look you squarely in the eyes. “This is Gojo Satoru we speak of, is it not?”

Slowly, unsure of where this was going, you nod.

“Then you have naught to worry about, Your Highness.” She flashes you such a beautiful smile, looking over your corset for imperfections - of course, there were none. “It is most likely that he’s skulking about these palace walls, looking for a minister to scare or a prince to embarrass.”

You’re letting out a soft huff of laughter.

“Or even…a princess to adore.”

Your eyes widen- and you’re snapping your gaze to hers. There’s a knowing expression that Utahime wears - one she often gets whenever she notices Gojo hiding in your room, or watches the two of you sneak out during royal balls. 

This one, in particular, was about to be the most crowded and convoluted yet. 

And you’re meeting her smile, eventually. “I thank you, Utahime…” You then look down as you hear the doors of the dressing room fly open, “But adoration cannot stop a royal engagement.”

Three sharp claps sound as the tailor gets the attention of your attendants. 

“That will be all, ladies. Thank you.” And his own attendants and apprentices flood the room to take over the fitting stage—Utahime squeezes your shoulder as she leaves.

Though she doesn’t reach her bed chambers for a much-needed rest, as she might have wanted to. Instead, she’s halting right outside the entrance-

“You.”

And making sure you were occupied by the tailoring, Gojo bows dramatically. Holding his little bells so they don’t jingle- “At your service, Madam Sour-face.”

“Cease it.”

“No, I said Sour-face-”

“Forget it.” Utahime could feel a migraine coming on already at the mere sight of his impish grin. 

“Sour-face Utahime with her pressure so high, one more joke and she’ll make me cry~”

Why - oh why - couldn’t the universe take as kindly to her and forbid her from seeing this man, too? She continues, “First, enlighten me as to why you’ve been giving Her Highness the cut?”

A too-innocent expression crosses his face. “Pardon? I fear I have no recollection of ever-”

“I will kill you with my bare hands and feel no ounce of guilt.”

Gojo clicks his jaw shut.

“I…” And it’s under the pressure of her unwavering glare that he finally cracks- letting out a deep sigh and dropping his head. “I plan to leave the palace.”

“Pardon?” Even she sounds utterly shocked. “When-”

“Tonight.” Gojo has never sounded more serious to her. “I have spent the past few days gathering my possessions, everything…she gifted me. As the ball starts tonight, I shall take my leave.”

“But your duties-”

“I have informed His Majesty of my decision. It seems though he shall miss the rhymes, he is keen for an amicable marriage between Her Highness and Prince Naoya. A jester can be replaced, trust in a marriage cannot—especially not one of political nature.” Utahime is almost shocked at this simple foresight, but then again- everyone always did underestimate the fool.

She watches his reaction, “And…the Princess?”

Which seems to make him flinch - as though struck. Perhaps a part of him was. “…I shall leave her a letter before I depart. Her Highness does not deserve to see such cowardice-”

“And yet you still remain.” Utahime’s words make his blue eyes snap to hers. She crosses her arms in front of her, and lets a smug smile take over her lips. “For what reason were you spying outside Her Highness’s fitting, if not to see her?”

“I—” He takes a desperate step closer. “It was simply in passing-”

“For what reason did you empty your bedroom of the flower crowns Her Highness made especially for you? Surely they shan’t prove themselves too useful on the road?”

Gojo’s eyes widened. “I…the memories-”

“For what reason have you waited until the last minute to leave? Until the last minute she shall not be yours, and yours only?”

He snarls, “She was never mine.”

“Because you believe the Princess does not deserve to base herself- being the lover of a fool yes?” When Gojo does not answer, she continues. “The fool seems to believe he knows what the Princess deserves. But does the fool know what he deserves?”

There’s a prolonged silence—of which is only punctured by the awed gasps from inside the dressing room, as the tailor and his apprentices comment on your beauty.

Gojo has the sudden, mad thought to open those doors just a little wider and see you for himself. Just one last time.

One last time.

What was he thinking?

He laughs to himself bitterly, “A jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.” 

“But a princess can be everything to a jester, yes?” Utahime asks. “More importantly- who are we to dictate what a person is to another person?”

The answer was as obvious as it was painful.

Gojo Satoru loved you. 

Loves you.

Something of it must show on his face, because Utahime throws him a pitiful look she’s never shared before—“You may leave if you please, I shan’t stop you.” And then she reaches out and presses a hand against the doors- they part, unlocked. “But if you wish to stay and stop acting a-fool…then follow me.”

She brushes past him.

Meanwhile Gojo looks inside and catches a glimpse of you - and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

He runs after Utahime, bells jingling.

.

.

.

“You look…”

“How odd.”

“How startling.”

“What a change!”

Utahime crinkles her nose, “The only thing this proves is that your face is more tolerable when it is covered.” She turns to the brown-haired woman next to her, “And that my Shoko is a goddess when it comes to handiwork.”

Shoko smiles sweetly, “I have much practice making death masks.”

“I’ll say.”

As the other few attendants pendulate between laughing to themselves, and admiring Shoko’s quick work - she’d been requested just a few hours before to make a mask befitting a royal ball, and she’d finished it just in time - Gojo leans closer to the mirror. 

He reaches his trembling fingers up to touch his face, “This is surely…me?”

“Unfortunately.” Utahime sighs, and she gets elbowed by Miwa.

Utahime had gathered the most trust-worthy attendants she led: Miwa, Momo, and Kugisaki from tailoring. Along with the impeccable royal healer, Shoko, who she knew would be the only one that would be able to create a mask for the ball with her expert hands. And they’d gotten to work fixing up perhaps their most difficult case yet—none other than Gojo Satoru.

The royal jester was rather fussy at first- insisting that the powder puffs and cloth wipes tickled. 

Before Utahime put her foot down and announced that they weren’t going to present a ‘half-assed’ (forgive her language) marriage-wrecker to the Princess just yet.

That reminder of you kept him quiet for the rest of the make-over.

And Kugisaki had even commented, “Perhaps we ought to invoke the Princess’s name every time we need to keep the jester in line?”

“Do not tempt me.” Utahime had replied. 

Gojo had shuddered.

But it really was true: he sat through the rest of the next hour or two without so much as a single rhyme or peep. 

Not even when they told him to ‘pucker up’ in order to douse him in rouges and lip stains. That likely saved five years from Utahime’s life…

Gojo himself helped them scrub off his stark-white jester’s make-up. The vampiric base. The teardrops of black paint. The red, red lips—a few of his little troupe openly stared as they’d never seen the Princess’s jester without his make-up. 

And Gojo himself knew that he wasn’t all that bad looking - he had noble features. A strong nose. A high set of cheekbones. A pert, pretty mouth that always looked to be on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.

Or, at least, that was how you described him.

You were the only person that got to see Gojo without his court-deemed make-up; and you always did say he was handsome. To which he’d always bat his long, white lashes dramatically and compose you a sappy sonnet about your eyes. He supposes he knew he was decent, but…handsome? 

He never saw it.

But these girls seemed determined to make him.

Cloudy hair. Delicate features. Blue eyes like a painting.

They replaced his make-up with something simpler. Gone was the cast of white, instead replaced by just a bit of rouge and shimmer. His pale brows were tamed and so was his hair - braided to the side using fragrant rose oils, with a few pieces falling handsomely over his face. All thanks to Momo, of course. 

Kugisaki had dug up something from that ol’ tailor’s trunk—a snow-white cloak and doublet, along with the associated tights he often made fun of. It was a suit fit for a prince. 

And it was exactly the type of suit he’d made fun of a prince for.

But here he was now - not a single difference between him and them. Or at least physically.

Gojo’s training sessions with Yaga had kept him fit; and he fit the suit perfectly. His broad shoulders were outlined against the clean cut, and his trim waist fit snugly into those damn tights—even through the suit, it was obvious he was well-built, in a way those baggy jester’s outfits never did show. Polished shoes. Silver buttons. Silver belt. Heavy silver chains and pendants that arrived with the robes. 

He might even have passed for a battle-hardened Prince like this…

Momo helped him into his equally as white gloves - it seems they were sticking to a theme for him. All the better to help his eyes and his crown stand out.

Oh yes…the girls had somehow bribed Yaga into letting them sneak down to the royal treasure. For just a few minutes.

All the spoils of war and generations of wealth—and they’d come out with a crown. 

It was Utahime who’d dug this one out, deciding that that would make him stand out far more than the usual hats. 

Made of pure silver; the design itself was rather simple, or so it seemed at first. Only when one looked closer…when one ventured further…could you see that what seemed like a simple band was actually a wreath of silver branches and floral vines twisted into one, with sapphire-studded flowers blooming along it. One more thing had been taken from the treasury - a signet ring with a ‘G’. 

“It felt proper.” Miwa, who had found the ring, beamed. “Names and titles are lost to time. And though I may not know what the ‘G’ once stood for, at least for tonight, it can mean ‘Gojo’, can it not?”

Gojo felt it getting slid onto his left hand, and he stares at the ring with furrowed brows.

He stares and stares.

He’s never felt more worthy of you.

By the time they had finished, the strings of the orchestra had started playing their opening sequence - the ball was commencing. 

Utahime turns to the rest of them, “We have done well.” Then, ultimately, back to grumble at him. “…You have done well.”

And though Gojo could make up a rhyme to rile her up, though Gojo could comment that they could have done better and bask in the ensuing chaos, though he could do his mask and his mask—

He simply looks at each and every one and smiles. Sincerely. “Thank you.”

They smile tenderly back.

The final component of his outfit for your engagement ball was the mask. Though there was no set theme, Shoko had gone above and beyond to craft his in the shape of the upper-half of a snow leopard’s face. The feline gaze. The sharp ears. The faint outline of rosettes against the white mask. It was mastery. 

Gojo dons it and smiles to himself. He really did feel handsome, as you had always said.

His blue, blue eyes twinkle from behind the mask.

.

.

.

“You look absolutely riveting, Your Highness.”

“I thank you.”

This was a royal ball that looked gilded. There was no other word to describe it—gilded. 

Polished floors. A thrumming orchestra. Golden chandeliers had every single candle lit; and they crept halfway down to the ballroom floor as if gifted from the Sun itself. Just for you. 

And that was in addition to the numerous other decorations that made even the most high-titled of guests gape in awe: the shimmering fountains that looked as if they were sprouting liquid gold, golden-dipped gardenias wreathed around the hallway, and the long table of foods were most lovely. All sorts of sweets and champagnes in honor of the union.

Guests upon guests upon guests being announced as they entered. They were dressed to impress, and there were more aristocrats gathered for this one ball than you’d seen in your entire life, perhaps. 

Had Gojo been here with you, then you two would’ve had the most amusing time coming up with stories for each one. 

There was Sir Gakuganji who held a secret liking for abstract dancing, here was Lord Todo whose son had fallen in love with a thousand-year-old portrait. No one would be spared. The two of you would have tucked yourself into some alcove and watched as the lavishments flew by, and when everyone was appropriately drunk you’d sneak out to the stables or to star-gaze. 

Your heart clenches.

Satoru…

You attempt to shake your head free of him.

It most certainly was a beautiful ball. And if you imagined that this was one of no particular purpose, then you really could see it. 

The ball was decorated to match your dress, you see.

Floor-length silk. Gold-threaded bodice. 

Celestial layers upon layers.

Your uppermost skirts had gold dusting atop it; and they dazzled as you floated across the ballroom. 

Your attendants had decided that going for a more simple look with the jewelry was appropriate - it would accentuate the simple gold circlet atop your head. A single sapphire embedded into the middle of it. 

Naoya had sneered at the choice, of course. When doesn’t he? But this time, he was particularly offended at the presence of a sapphire rather than the Zenin family’s signature blood-red rubies.

You refused to make your attendants change it. You donned your cat-like mask with pride. 

Perhaps that’s why he seemed keen on ignoring you in favor of a group of other beautiful court ladies in attendance—though you honestly couldn’t imagine anything different happening had the two of you been married, as well. You sighed inwardly.

You’re nodding in acknowledgement as Prince Okkotsu Yuta nears with a man beside him. 

He looked older - about your father’s age, if not a few years older. Tall. Toned - in the way of someone that had one been corded with muscle, but had since lost it to age. Bearing an ice-white beard and a row of silver medals proudly lining his chest—he stands before you in his off-white uniform and bows. It was obvious that the man was rather handsome, drawing eyes from around the ballroom. 

But what catches your eye the most were his eyes.

Summer-sky blue eyes.

They reminded you of—

“My uncle, Michizane, Your Highness.” Yuta introduces him. “This is his first time in the palace since…”

Your voice drops into something hushed. “I understand.” Turning to the general, you’re half-bowing once more. “I am rejoiced to welcome you into my home, any troubles that we may have had in the past-”

“Have naught to do with the present, Your Highness.” Michizane graciously nods at you. “And most certainly have naught to do with the beloved princess.”

You manage a smile.

“And if you can excuse my being so impudent…it is precisely what I sought this occasion for, Your Highness.” He looks over the bustling crowd, now getting ready to waltz- and seemingly catches the eye of your father. Your father who now looked as though he’d just seen a walking dead man. “I hope to bury the misunderstandings between my family and your father, and understand what happened to my younger brother and his family. It had proved itself to be both a blessing and a curse that I had been on an excursion during those troubled times. And I seek a resolution for the sake of my inner peace, if nothing else.”

You’re nodding in agreement. “It is most tragic what happened. For the sake of borders…nothing is worth so much. And I cannot ask for your mercy enough-”

“It is not something I shall ever be able to forgive. But you are not at fault, dear princess.” Michizane smiles conclusively, but not unkindly. 

“And yet, I have been wracked with guilt ever since.” You ultimately reply. 

Though you hadn’t met Michizane previously, you had learned that the history between your families was a long and bloody one. His family had been of a royal bloodline, of kingdoms now lost and eviscerated into neighboring ones - including yours. And you knew it was partly the fault of your kingdom. And although royal tutors justified and justified away your father’s actions—you could see past them

“Perhaps…” Michizane is the one to break through your whirlwind of thoughts. He reaches his gloved hand out, a silver signet ring on his middle finger. “-a dance to commence the burying of our animosity?”

“But of course.”

As the orchestra starts up a lively tune, Michizane whisks you away onto the dance floor. Much to the horror of some of your elderly ministers, of course, who gaped at the mere presence of the man.

And at the fact that your first dance wasn’t with the Prince.

But laughter bubbles to your throat as Michizane twirls and swirls you—sways you smoothly around and around the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers you’ve ever encountered, and you’re smiling appreciatively at him once the song comes to a close.

From the corner of your vision, you spot the black-and-red-clad Naoya storming his way over to you. And you hurry to beg a second dance when-

A title is announced - louder than all the rest. 

A prince.

Prince…you don’t hear the name.

But you don’t need it. 

Because you’re looking up at the grand staircase from which guests made their entrance, hand-in-hand with their partners or followed by their entourages. This one had neither. This one was one of the most beautiful men you think you’ve ever seen.

He looked like something from a story.

Snow-white mask. Snow-white suit. He was tall and clearly toned - but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem almost…dainty. He gripped the balustrade of the landing and looked over the glistening ball- barely even breathing, it seemed like. And he looked content to remain there in awe, before the chief butler reading out the named coughs- pointedly.

The man startles.

He looks over at the chief butler, and then nods jerkily to himself. In self-assurance.

Cautiously, he makes his way down to the ball.

And the closer he gets, the more of his details you’re taking in: like the traces of signature silver on his suit, and the way his fingers trembled ever-so-slightly. 

He looked just like the princes you’d read about in fairytales - the ones you imagined as a child before you happened to meet a real-life prince. 

Curls of white could be seen behind that snow leopard mask of his. They contrasted oh-so-beautifully with the blue, blue sapphire atop his crown.

Just like his eyes.

Your breath hitches-

“I believe I may have been monopolizing you, Your Highness.” Michizane whispers as the Prince nears. 

“Pardon?” You look at him- but he merely smiles.

Before you know it, the mysterious guest has neared enough to give the two of you a jerky bow. His tone tremors ever-so-slightly as he asks, “P-permission for the next dance, Your Highness?”

Michizane nods at you reassuringly. 

“I would be delighted.” You breathe, and then he’s taking your hand in his—gently. A touch even softer than the fabric of his tender, tender gloves. 

“I bid you a good evening, Your Highnesses.” Michizane tips his hat, “And do take care of the lovely princess…” Before turning to the younger man…his brows furrow the longer he looks-

But a lady-in-waiting taps Michizane’s arm for a dance—and he’s made to turn away. 

And you’re left alone.

With him.

Naoya stuck with some other lady-in-waiting as you put your hand…tentatively on the other man’s right shoulder. He lets out a shaky breath, as if your mere touch was replenishing his soul—and he doesn’t move away. Then you let your second hand get grasped - gently - in his own. 

Backward with your right foot.

Sideways with your left foot.

Backwards.

Sideways.

Backwards.

Sideways. 

It’s halfway into the song, pressed closed to his thundering chest, that you finally break the silence. “The crown suits you…Satoru.”

Gojo flinches, “You discovered-”

“You did not seriously think you could fool me?” You smile. He mirrors it- albeit sheepishly. “Gojo Satoru, how could I possibly be gulled? You have been my dearest friend since I was eight-”

He twirls you in the middle of the ballroom.

And you continue. “-and the one I hold closest to heart.” Looking deep into his blue, blue eyes.

Gojo sighs, “Words cannot describe how beautiful you are, my princess. The least this fool can do is but dress to impress.”

“You look particularly dashing this evening as well, Satoru. You always do.” Surprise makes his lips part—and you’re leaning in. Though they do not touch, you hear gasps from the onlookers. “You look like a Prince.”

“And you look like my dreams.”

The two of you dance for a second song, and a third, and a fourth. Without letting Naoya gain any entryway between you two - that non-existent space - you two dance the night away—dizzy with nothing but the proximity.

The realization that you could be so…close as long as no one found out. That you couldn’t be closer.

That you could.

That you needed to.

By the time that most of the guests had well and thoroughly indulged themselves in the bubbling champagne and wine, the clock had struck midnight—and you and Gojo disappear into the night once no one’s looking. Through the small passageway where the two of you had first met, then up a few flights of staircases, breathless and giddy, you’re lucky there were no guards stationed outside your bed chambers as the ball raged on.

And you’re opening the door and falling into the vast bed with him.

Your hands on his lapels. His hands on your waist.

You’re both letting out synchronized grunts as your back hits the springy mattress, and Gojo’s letting out a scorching breath that fans your face. That sets your skin searing.

“We ought not to…” You whisper- and then you’re pressing your lips down his neck. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows.

“I am of the same thought.” He responds, in an equally hushed tone - as if anything louder would shatter this fragile dream. It most certainly must be a dream, yes? This was all you’ve ever wanted- and him. “And yet—”

And yet, Gojo places a hand on the back of your neck, and guides your mouth to his. 

He kisses you loooong and deep- and inexperienced. You both are.

You’re chuckling as you tug his lips open with yours - letting Gojo’s sultry tongue slide inside your wet cavern. He drags his tastebuds inside and moans—

And after kissing you and kissing you as if starved for eons—

Until your lips were buzzing.

Until his hot hips were crushing into yours.

—you let your fingers fall to his silver buttons. Rapidly undoing them.

“My princess.” The jester wrenches deep from his chest - guttural and gone. There was a crazed hint in his tone already. “Allow me…”

And before you know it, he guides your hips to rest back on the king-sized mattress. Sapphire eyes boring deeply into yours- Gojo hands you his crown to hold, as he hovers himself down and unravels the first few layers of your gown. 

His fingers are quick- nimble.

And it takes him far shorter an amount of time to rid you down to your undergarments than it takes your careful attendants. Desperate. Depraved. Soon enough, you’re feeling goosebumps prickle across your skin at the bite of cold midnight air; your chemise and undergarments were much too thin.

And soaked. 

Utterly, utterly soaked. 

But Gojo’s face flushes - almost hard enough to warm your skin through sheer proximity. He admires your sopping cunt through your panties, he leans down and presses his nose right where your clit would be. And then he sniffs—

“Fuck.”

He almost jolts. Reaching in and tearing through your undergarments with his teeth. 

“Fuh-fuck.”

The noise that expels from him is almost unbidden- and its primal tone is enough to make your toes curl. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stares at your swollen folds. He stares at your glossy slit. 

He stares and stares as slick beads out of you in a pretty stream—and before Gojo’s own mind seems to register, he’s muffling a hot moan between your naked legs. Immediately shoving himself nose-deep.

His chin thwacks! the top of your sopping slit, and his tongue wastes no time darting inwards. 

Your entrance is so wet that he has no trouble easin’ his thick muscle inside- despite its impressive girth. And then immediately zig-zagging his sensual inches fucking in—aaaaaaall along your walls and driving the curvaceous tip of his tongue into every little ridge and cranny. Fat. Trembling with need. 

“Yes, my princess.” Gojo’s managing between husky breaths- each scorched out against where you were most sensitive. “Yes, my princess-”

“S-Satoru—” Your hand’s reaching down to twist your fingers into his snow-white locks. 

You’re giving him a particularly hard pull and he groans-

“My princess…” That ocean gaze of his is half-lidded and hypnotized, flickering right up to bore into your eyes as he gluttonously propels his tongue even deeper. “I cannot live if I do not make you mine.”

Your feet plant on either side of his shoulders- a steadfast pedestal. For you to buck your hips and shove your drivelling cunt against his mouth, “Then what deters you, jester?”

Gojo’s chuckle is dark and deepened with lust. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

He’s moving his tongue in and out of your hole at such a frenzy. 

This was the night of your royal engagement, and you’re here getting eaten out by your jester—

“Does it vex you that this lowborn jester has finally gotten his hands on the princess’s pretty pussy?” He gurgles out into your arching core, the wads of your sap slipping between his lips—and then back out as he licks. “Perhaps not you…but surely those godforsaken ministers that must have hoped for a more…royal touch….”

And licks and licks and licks—“Y-you keep running that mouth, Sato-”

“Jester, remember?” He grins. “Pray tell, Your Highness, am I the first?”

He must know the answer. He surely must- he’s been at your side for the past eighteen years…and you yourself were aware that you were his first, too. 

Yet you find your lips moving before your mind does. And you whimper, “Y-yes…”

“Pardon, my princess?”

“Yes-”

Gojo drags the doughy patches of his fingertips across your clit.

“Then you grant this lowly fool the deepest and most precious honor.”

It was an honor. 

An honor to eat your pretty core—to press his puckered lips against your folds in such a sensual kiss- one that would make even the most scandalous of court ladies faint. To part those tender pussylips and dive his tongue inside- every single inch that thrusts away at a vigorous pace. Stuffing you from the hilt of his tastebuds, to that flexible tip that swirled to n’ fro- 

Gojo had his face pressed up so closely - so deeeeep - that parts of his features were rubbin’ red. Covered in slick. Dripping with it. 

And yet he was only scouring deeper- deeper- fucking deeper until your pelvis was crushed against his hungry maw. Crushed. “And this fool is grateful- so very, utterly grateful.” His tastebuds were going in nearly till those sweetened soft spots you loved so much in those solitary moments in the privacy of your baths, yet he flares his tongue till he’s stretchin’ you out even more. “I shall do anything for you, my princess- anything—I live to serve you-”

Gojo’s honed canines nip at your clit.

“And this pussy.”

And serving you, he is. 

With every fibre of his being. With every part of him that could reach you—he’s eating you out like such an animal, as if he was going fucking frenzied on your cunt. 

The tip of his nose massaging your clit. That left hand of his fastening to your waist and dragging you right back n’ forth even deeper. 

“And th-this fool deserves not such a privilege-” He whispers, mostly to himself. Though his wide, lust-glazed eyes maintain contact with yours, “This fool deserves nothing. And yet…yet, I care not if they happened to enter this chamber right now- I would gladly get thrown in the gallows for this greed, for a second taste.” 

Wide-eyed - almost crazed - he tugs his wet tongue uuuuup the middle of your slit, and almost up to your navel. “In fact, I beg of it.”

And his other hand…

Oh, Gojo’s other set of fingers smear the puddle of slick that spreads from your core- all along your inner thighs and making its way down your calves. He collects it all.

Every single drop.

And then, like the most precious of mead, he brings those wettened fingertips up to his mouth and sucks. Savors. Gojo’s eyes flutter closed and his Adam’s apple bobs with ecstasy - “She tastes like she yearns for more.” 

“You understand?” You’re asking, half-bemused.

“I speak seven languages, Your Highness.” Gojo replies, “One of which is pussy—” Then with his flattened tongue, he laps up the rest of the satiny ribbons escaping you- before flicking his eyes to the mountain of pillows piled behind you. “My princess, might I request that you procure a little treasure I have left underneath your favorite pillow?”

“A little treasure…?” Almost dazed, you reach underneath and your fist closes around something soft and bell-decorated. One of his jester’s hats. 

“A long, long night beside the princess left this poor fool forgetting—the hat bestowed upon me by the princess, I should be getting~” Gojo trills- whilst he still lavishes his heated, horny lips across your swollen cunt. “But if the princess puts it upon my head, she can be as pushy- as she wishes as I eat this royal pussy~”

Your jester is speaking rhymes between your legs?

“Oh, sometimes your mouth is overworked.” You’re harrumphing at the overjoyed jester - once you’re unceremoniously dumping the cap n’ bell onto Gojo’s head.

Grinning, he bites down on the expensive tip of his right glove and tugs it off. 

He makes quick work fastening that behind his ears, before nudging your hands to grasp onto the floppy ‘ears’ on top. Your sole source of balance as he leans in and eases one of his long fingers inside- then two—then teasin’ a third.

As he shovels in oblong inches into your sopping cunt, pushin’ apart your tender folds and letting his padded tips find their way inside. And inside.

In and out.

“Please-” You breathe heavily as he quickens the pace after a few squelching thrusts. His middle finger was the longest, and it was spreading you apart the deepest—fuck, it was just so soft inside. So welcoming. So tight that you were clenchin’ around him almost hard enough to make his poor digits snap- and the mere thought makes Gojo hard enough in his trousers that he wants to cream them right away-

You’re clamoring onto your elbows suddenly, “Y-you cannot be serious, Satoru…”

Oh, had he said that out loud? It seems he’d said that out loud. And yet, without even a hint of regret in his grin- Gojo hums. “A jester shan’t ever lie to his princess.” Those kiss-bitten lips of his purse with a wad of spittle that lands gently between your pussylips, “Or his pussy.”

“Your pussy?” You ask- before the breath’s suddenly knocked out of you as he starts driving a third finger in this time. Properly.

Stretching you out to the maaaaaximum. 

The globular ends of his fingers edging in, in, in—he doesn’t just remain pistoning them vertically. Gojo’s rude in the sense that he’s hooking them right below where you needed him the most.

Throbbing, thumping; your g-spot was most certainly aching for him.

But that was exactly the problem- and Gojo’s smile grows wicked as he keeps thrusting his three fingers into your cunt. “J-just the slightest bit…fuck, to the left, jester.”

“If the princess may still utter a sentence, then this poor jester must go harder on her entrance~” He croons. Swabbin’ into every good spot except for that one - your favorite - he suckles on your sensitive nub. “What deters you from claiming what you seek, hm? Use me, Your Highness.”

Your teary eyes snap open. When had you even closed them? “Use?”

“Use me.” Less of a demand- more of a live-saving plea. Gojo was so far gone by this point that his hardened hips were ruttin’ against the luxurious mattress with every swipe of his tongue, “Claim what you wish. Use me- use me—”

And as he wishes, you’re lightly tugging on the points of his jester hat to keep him pressed against you-

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“I beg of you—this lowly fool begs…” As his right hand shapes out the tight, tight channel of your cunt - Gojo reaches his other hand up to grasp your own- to make you clutch his cap n’ bells even tighter. Hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks- and he needs you to be just as rough. “Fucking use me like the princess you are. The princess that saved me.” 

He ruts even more suddenly- he must be painfully hard now. 

“Claim my lips. Claim my tongue- claim every fibre of my being to be used by you…” A low snarl snatches from the back of his throat. “-just claim me as yours, as I have claimed you, my princess.”

And then you’re knocking that stupid little hat off his head- and fisting your hands in his hair once more to crush Gojo’s pretty, pink lips against your cunt. Arching off the mattress, you were just bucking and bucking your treacly pussy all over his face.

Stringing yourself through the shockwaves of pleasure that kept pouring up your legs - like warm water. Gojo was just salivating in-between them.

He doesn’t even have the time to breathe—and you’re getting the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to. Couldn’t even make himself think of anything else but dragging four - now four - fingers between those swollen-shut lips and thud-thud-thudding into your g-spot. “Good princess.” He hisses between clenched teeth, “Gooooood princess-”

“Keep quiet, jester.” You’re feeling yourself get slowly overcome by primal desperation. 

“As you wish, mistress~” And Gojo’s never been happier- lashing and lashing those ridged tastebuds inside until your walls buzzed with the texture. “Mmmm.”

And soon enough, you’re feeling your legs start to twitch- in the way they did whenever you had your fingers stuffed deep in the baths- “Oh.” By this point, Gojo was aiming to intrude four fingers and his slippery tongue between your pussylips. 

Swirlin’ and swirlin’ it—tap-tap-tapping it over that first tight ring of muscle. 

His greed sickened you- and made you even wetter. And with a forceful tug of those angelic strands of his, you’re staring deep into Gojo’s eyes - fluttering desperately as he fights not to detach himself with your wet pussy. He doesn’t.

And he’s accelerating his fingers hitting the bullseye—

“I-I feel I shan’t last very long, Sato- jester.” You’re hissing, eyes threatening to shut as the white-hot pleasure keeps wracking through you.

With his spit-glossed lips wrapped around your clit, he hums. “Mmm?”

“Oh.” You hunch into him. “Repeat that.”

“Mmmmm—” Gojo elongates his nearly-feline rumbles, and then his lips quirk up- into a grin you recognize as being a signature of when he gets a devious idea. 

One sure to ruin courts and leave you amused - though you’re sure that you’re the sole one being ruined right now. 

He’s nuzzling his face ever-deeper against your cunt, then muffles out an entire sentence - what you assume to be a rhyme - whilst he keeps his mouth sucklin’ on your clit. Making the sensitive bursts of pleasure explode twofold behind your eyes- you’re seeing stars as he repeats it—again, and again, and again and again and again—

Gojo often did love repeating a joke if it managed to make you laugh exceptionally hard.

However, now you were all but crying out for mercy. Your chin trembles as you keen out Gojo’s name in a lingering echo, “I-I really shan’t- oh…” No matter how many years of royal diction or elocution you’ve endured, it couldn’t mask the way your voice cracks on the tail end of your sentence. 

Almost pathetically so.

And soon enough, Gojo’s finding his witty mouth stuffed full- fucking you through your high.

Tongue flicking in and out. Teeth grazing over your clit. 

He alternates between letting his tastebuds enter your pussy as well—and then letting his doughy digit take over as he suckles on your clit. Like the sweetest thing in the world. “Mmmm.” Repeating his little rhymes over and over- interrupted only by the noisy slurps! of him sucking on your nub- and the embarrassing little whimpers as he was wrenched by you.

Side-to-side. Up and down.

You’re moving him wheeeeeerever you wanted- and he was in heaven as pain sears from his scalp.

You grip onto his braid, and another lock of his hair, as handlebars to prolong your wave of pleasure. The bliss stabs through you white-hot as he presses deeeep into your g-spot. “I haven’t felt anything like this- hah, before, Satoru…”

“Your jester aims to please.”

Your orgasm makes you shiver. It rattles past your walls - where the pounding was most prevalent - and then up your spine to make your head pound with pleasure—the curling of your toes, the fluttering of your lashes, the way you’re letting escape the sweetest soft moans; sweeter than any orchestra downstairs. Gojo memorizes it all. 

Through peak after peak.

Through thrust after thrust.

And as the crescendo comes to a close, he parts with your pussy—a pointed squelch! emanates from the connection. “Though the back of this Princess’s pussy I did knock, Her Royal Highness still yearns for the jester’s cock~”

Your mouth gapes, “Do not tell me that was the rhyme you have been repeating this entire time?”

“As you wish, I shan’t.” He grins. And then Gojo’s raising himself to his haunches- shrugging off his cloaks and his coats. “Perhaps another? From all the princes and lords to pick, our beloved Princess yearned for the jester’s di-”

“Another word and you shall be turned out.” You warn him, albeit half-heartedly.

“Now that doesn’t rhyme, Your Highness.” Gojo faux-pouts. With a few more tugs and pulls - he really didn’t understand how you aristocrats wore this on every occasion - he’s ridding himself of his upper garments and his trousers. 

Though you’ve seen the royal jester shirtless time and time again, his perfectly-toned body made your eyes bulge. 

And then finally the linen undergarments that presented him—Gojo Satoru’s long cock, hot and rock-hard.

He was engorged till he looked fit to burst - with his mushroom-curved tip blushin’ an angry red, and his veins popping out down his shaft. So prominent that you could almost count every throb-throb-throb!

Gojo’s tip glistens wetly with precum, capping the top of his cock and just oozing like a lacquer down every inch. Almost eight inches, if you’re mentally counting correctly. 

He wraps a single hand around his thickened base- rustling the soft curls decorating his pelvis. Spreading out in an alluring pattern—Gojo then uses his other hand to nudge your thighs apart. Hamstrings stretching. Toes curling. Making sure they’re pinned to the springy mattress before he inches his red-hot cock closer. 

There’s a resounding squeeeeelch! as he smears the very first, readied inch down your opening crevice. 

“Easy there, Your Highness.” Gojo’s breath hatches with a moan. “Easy- hah…”

“I am no steed, Satoru.”

“You speak the truth, my princess.” He shoots you a ravishing smile- hungry. He really did look ready to eat you. Ready to shovel his entire length in.

Ready to break—himself. Fuck.

He was breaking himself. 

A mere few inches are entering past that first ring of muscle-

And you’re arching your back into his chiselled chest. “Oh h-heavens…” It leaves you and mixes with the broken grunts n’ gruffs that were leaving Gojo just as equally, just as desperately, as he keeps your hips pushed into the bed and siiiiinks his cylindrical length inside. 

It’s like nothing your royal tutors had lectured you upon - down to the fact that all those awkward anatomical lessons were for your wedding night with a prince, no less. 

You feel a pearl of red escape you—and you embrace him with weakened limbs. “Satoru-”

“H-heaven is correct.” Gojo hiccups out. Was he still stuck on that you’d uttered earlier- had he even heard anything more? And were there…tears twinkling at the edges of his lashes? 

Before you can finalize an answer, you’re mewling at the slight resistance of your cunt. Gojo’s cock was oh-so-girthy—more than you might have expected, and seemed to be throbbing even bigger with every second he was mazin’ himself inside you.

And he feels the shift immediately- he’s affected by it immediately.

His handsome jaw grits. His chest caves with a sudden groan. He turns his half-lidded eyes downwards, and using both overlarge hands he grips each of your asscheeks. 

Those pretty, princely features of his twist into something agonized- as Gojo arches his sculptured back and drives his cock inside. “Please-” Your best friend pants out. “Please, please, please, please—h-haven’t I served you well, Your Highness?”

“You would be correct…?” You’re answering him- head foggy because of the sudden flurry of semi-thrusts.

In and out. In and out. He was buried just a few inches past his sensitive slit - and the small tremors of your cunt meant that he was thrown to ecstacy every few split-seconds. 

Gojo seemed to be growing longer than you remembered seeing him.

Gojo seemed to be pulsing even thicker-

“Th-then…shan’t this lowly fool be rewarded with a single inch…?” He mumbles- sounding utterly drunk. And it wasn’t just his slurring tone and his tapering sentences that gave you that impression - but Gojo had his face pressed into the crook of your neck, and his hot tongue gliiiiiding up your sweaty neck. “A mere inch, my princess-”

You buck- and even that seemed far too much for the pussydrunken jester.

For he’s digging his crescent-shaped nails into your soft flesh and dragging you back into him - hitting his hips with a resounding thwack! “No- no, please don’t leave, Your Highness.” He begs—fucking begs. 

“I-I am not—oh.” Another blustering thrust that leaves your deepest innards probed.

“If you wish me to cease- then just say the word. And I shall heed every syllable.” Gojo murmurs, his sapphire eyes threatening to shut with the hypnotic squeeze. With his pure need. With the urge to feel himself from the outside- and considering how big he was, he’s sure he’d manage to. “But please- please, do not leave me. Th-this pussy has been my deepest, darkest desire ever for f-far too long.”

Your eyes widen, “How long…exactly?”

Those plump, rose-pink lips of his graze yours as soft as a feather. “Ever since I knew what it was…and I woke up with quite the ah- rock-hard situation. I had never left your chamber faster, Your Highness- what if the attendants witnessed it?”

You moan as one of his hands lifts off your ass to thumb aside your sultry pussylips. Lovingly full.

“What if they were aware how feverishly I desired you?”

They were just glued with sap- it makes him break off a moan.

“What if- hngh, what if they could see through me—a lowborn mutt- eager to dirty the precious princess?”

Gojo stares so long and lovingly at your slightly-ajar cunt—so lovingly, that his mouth ends up watering. He continues, “To dirty you…to corrupt you.” A stream of spittle leaks from the corner of his lips, and it ends up dapplin’ over your folds. 

“To- hah, fuck you.”

Your jester roves his hips closer - smearing the translucent liquid using his hips. Aaaaaaall over as he nudges and nudges his rounded, reddened tip deeper inside - taking over your cunt little by little. 

Stars flash behind your eyelids, and in that opportunity, Gojo had reached over to take the crown that he’d donned for the ball. Your engagement ball. And he was promptly caressing the top of your scalp with it, placing it atop your beautiful head—you suited his colors. 

Gojo lets out something that sounded more like a prayer: “To fuck you with the crown on, has always been this fool’s most embarrassing wish.”

He’s finally bottoming out.

Finally. And it’s a sensation like none other. 

Gojo’s cock was stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before; managing to mold your channel to his measurements. And his hammers were just so sensual—slow, semi-thrusts so that he can fit himself inside. “Please-” Inside and inside. “Please, please- this lowly jester knows every secret and preference of yours, my princess.”

Your heels are digging into the gorgeous dimples at the base of his spine. “Yes, oh…”

“Every- single- inch—” And you’re being propelled in short jerks upwards- those ancient royal bedsprings protesting. As much as you were begging for more. Your hands drag down his creamy-white back, leaving bloodied marks- and that only leaves him pulsating even harder inside you. Gojo’s blossomed tip had contentedly filled you up till your cervix - “In ways those ministers would- hah, wring my neck over.”

“I would never let them.” You’re spitting out.

“And yet…” Gojo leans down to whisper. “That only made this fool yearn for it- more-” A few more pressurized thrusts, and every prominent vein of his massages your spots oh-so-perfectly. As he pushes n’ pushes he continues babbling, “Please let it fit inside-” His lips tremble with a whimper. “Please let it fit inside—”

Shock strangles your words, “S-Satoru, you’re already inside.”

“P-pardon?” He almost stutters his hips - before he likely realized that your syrupy-sweet cunt was far too heavenly for him to merely linger. And he’s thrusting away like an animal. 

Nodding, “Satoru, I promise—” Eyes scrunching together at the incredible sensations of him stretchin’ you out, hitting into your every nook, letting his velvety tip glide across your tenderest area - that g-spot. “You’ve succeeded your fantasy.” Your legs tighten around his slender waist, “Promise.”

Gojo’s chin hits his chest.

And he’s staring down at where the two of you glossily connect—“O-oh…” Gojo’s mouth looked so delicious like this - you almost wanted to bite him - as an expression of cute surprise takes over him.

And all of a sudden, it’s as if he’s simply melting…

Into your arms. Into your cunt. Gojo’s honey-dipped tip probes into your cervix, and instead of even ramming away - he’s merely draaaaagging and swirlin’ the bulbous edge of him around. Again and agaaaaain. The texture of his flared ridge was something incredible, and it knocks n’ grinds against hidden spots of nerves. “I finally have you, Your Highness.”

You’re feeling your heart pound at his confession - oh-so-tender. Even when he was fucking you deep into the plush mattress.

“You have never not, my jester.” You’re admitting back up at him.

The most beautiful smile graces his face- and Gojo’s feeling quite unfairly about all this. So he’s slitherin’ his right hand between your legs and spankin’ your neglected clit.

Those slight brushes of his bushy happy trail weren’t enough—now he was twiddling and turning such dizzying patterns atop that sweet, sweet nub. Watching your every minute expression, he hums. “Beautiful through anger, happiness and shock, yet the Princess looks prettiest on my cock~”

“You fiend.” You’re swatting his chest.

Only for him to gather up those weak legs of yours and bend you into a mating press- a mating press. Muscular thighs against your thighs. Your knees against your tits.

Gojo keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he drills away, “Though this lowly fool may be poor with the manners of a pig, aren’t you happy to have a cock that’s actually big~?”

And that…you have to admit that that one actually draws a laugh out of you.

And just as soon as the bubbling noise emerges from your lips- 

Gojo’s body seems to collapse. His hips seem to falter. His cock thunks at the back of your womb, sending your teeth chattering, and lets out a throb-throb so hard that you feel it louder than your own heartbeat.

Your eyes shoot open, “S-Satoru…?”

“I-I am quite alright, Your Highness. Naught to worry about.” Though there was something thoughtful behind his eyes, “It is simply…”

And only after a few more thrusts—after a few more rub-a-dubs of his thumb…fingers now so jittery on your cunt that he’s teasin’ you with his silver signet ring, too.

The smooth metal makes you keen-

“For all the horses and all the men, could not pull the fool out of his princess again.” He near-tentatively utters. It could be heard only slightly above the smacking of skin-on-skin, of his hips practically plastered onto yours, and you can’t help it - you’re startled into a laugh.

“P-pardon?” You speak through both moan n’ giggles. 

“Oh…” Meanwhile, Gojo was absolutely shattering. He was drooling. He was—fuck, he was tearing up. And great globules of tears were hitting the edge of your shoulder.

Gojo’s rubbin’ himself raw- he’s wracking his brain a mile a minute just for a new verse to come up with. 

Something that will make you laugh.

Something that will make you squeeze your tremoring thighs ‘round him. 

Something that will make you clench—and it’s such a startling, tight sensation that damn-near sends him hurtling straight into his high. But he can’t cum before you - of course, he can’t. What good jester possibly ever could? Before his princess no less?

Gojo accelerates his hips until tears start clinging onto his long lashes, and his cocktip starts twitchin’ out of pure oversensitivity.

And so he keeps on repeating—rhyme after rhyme, botched whimper after whimper. Each one more ragged than the last. Your jester was making you whine with laughter as he fucked you- whispering in your ear in aaaaaall the dirty ways one perhaps shouldn’t to a princess.

He fucks you like an animal. 

It’s the final note you’re hearing - ‘—no prettier princess than thee.’ - as your sudden high takes you by surprise. Legs shaking. Back arching. You’re squeezing him tighter than ever as the white-hot pleasure courses through you.

Thrumming your every vessel and vein.

Thrusted deeper into you with every one of his- they seem to burst pretty fireworks inside your now-emptied head. Nothing but lust inside it.

And it doesn’t take much for Gojo to topple into his orgasm, as well. He shakes- he stutters…“C-cumming…” Breathlessly. Large tears were puddlin’ at the crook of your neck, dampening your skin more than your perspiration. “And I cannot think of a more appropriate home.”

“Should you sire an heir, they shall have your head.” You’re whispering to him - a smile on your face.

“But you forevermore have my heart.”

“Rake.”

“For you only, my princess.”

That bawling divot atop his shaft keeps floodin’ out a constant stream of cum—hot-white and lacquering your insides. Every single burst of cum made him twitch- letting out the prettiest erotic whines. “My princess—solely for you.” 

“More.” You murmur gutturally. “More- more.”

“More…deep inside.” Lovingly, he’s patting at your bloated pussy. “Just for my princess.”

Until your walls were almost heavy with the condensation of his sap, and after only a few thrusts of his shaft- it was pouring out of you almost like a waterfall. 

Between the crevice of your puffy pussylips, you feel it drip-drip-dripping out of you. Eventually formulating a little froth of creamy white ‘round Gojo’s swollen base - a few globules that he’s smearing with a thumb and pushing right back into you. A thumb stuck right between your folds. “A-and where do you believe you are putting your hands, Satoru?”

“Simply giving my princess everything she deserves…” He leans down to nibble on your soft ear lobe. “And right on her engagement night, as well.”

You’re moaning as he tugs on your clit a few more times.

“Happy engagement, Your Highness.” The jester speaks, as he fucks his cum into you harder than ever. 

You end up babbling for a few minutes longer, before the sudden sparks of your high start bating- and Gojo himself starts finally slowing his hips down. 

“Mmmm…” You reach up and clasp him by the back of his neck, sweaty, with his hair curled at the name. You whisper into his mouth, “My greatest pleasure, to be engaged to you, Prince Gojo Satoru.”

There’s a long stretch of silence - still thrusting - before he mutters. 

“I really do wish I could marry you…” Summer sky-blue eyes shuttering into the kiss—

“Satoru.”

“—my princess.”

.

.

.

“Zenin Naoya.”

The young man whirls around - and his nose crinkles in distaste as an older man enters the royal guests’ quarters. 

No union had been announced.

The engagement ball had long since ended, and you had even long since disappeared with some prince- some jester, as he had discovered through ballroom gossip. 

The fucking jester.

Naoya knew he should have gutted him after that dinner.

But alas, once he arrived outside your royal bed chambers to finish off the job- he’d been blocked by your personal guards from entering. That damned General Yaga had threatened that a single step closer could constitute an attempt at treason- treason? 

Accusing him of treason? Did he not know who Naoya was?

General Yaga hadn’t budged. And thus, Naoya had no choice left but to retire to his own guest’s quarters. 

Alone and angry until morning arrived. 

He had just settled with the thought of enacting his own taste of justice today- he shall lure some of the ministers to your bed chambers, perhaps falsifying an ailment you’d befallen under, before Gojo can escape. And once they discover that that lowborn jester had sullied the Princess- dungeons it is for the fool.

And oh-so-generous Prince Zenin Naoya shall agree to marry even a ruined maiden. 

Then comes the crown. Then the titles, the land, the power.

The woman shan’t be too bothersome, either, at least you were easy on the eyes. Even if the jester had gotten his hands on you first.

And ah…perhaps he shall throw out this court and your father along with it? That’s if he was in a good mood - and it was the original plan, after all…

Or perhaps he shall stage a coup of which your father had ‘led’ and enact justice as King- yes…a royal hanging should seem righteous enough. The jester shall be first. 

This was justice. 

Naoya had just been in the middle of writing a letter to inform his father of this change of plans, when a knock-knock-knock thundered from the door. The broad, bearded man on the other side of it hadn’t waited for him to answer before coming inside. 

“May I…help you?” He stands. Had this seemed like any old guard or minister, then Naoya would not have hesitated to draw his sword- but this was clearly someone of high status. Of numerous battle accomplishments.

And his eyes dip down to the silver scabbard at his waist…

This was clearly someone potent.

“I have arrived with a proposition.” The bearded man invites himself to sit down on the very chair that Naoya had been at work at.

Naoya’s eyes narrow, “Of what kind? Do I look like an errand boy to-”

“Of the kind I am aware your family is quite expert at.” Those words held such a dark weight to them—and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Prince for a single second as he utters. “To be frank, I must request the ah…removal of Prince Okkotsu Yuta from the throne.”

That makes the royal straighten. “Find yourself a common mercenary-”

THUNK—!

From underneath his coat, the visitor pulls out a hefty bag - so large that Naoya wonders just how it had remained obscured for this long. There is a weight to it that makes the polished desk rattle, papers flying. There is an overabundance of its contents—so that the burlap rim threatens to burst open.

Naoya gulps as he eyes the - albeit alluring - bag. “D-do you believe the Kingdom of Zenins to have plummeted so far that we hold the need for a single sack of gold?”

The other man chuckles, “Gold?”

And with a single flick at the rim—it’s opening to reveal…sapphires.

A miniature mountain of it.

Such a rare beauty. Naoya had never seen so many in all the treasuries he’d ransacked combined - and his hand it darting out to grasp it—

“This is, of course…merely the advance.” The man places his hand on top of the bag, and slides it discreetly away from the Prince. His fingers twitch towards it, but Naoya can’t do anything with the other man here. “Trust me when I claim that your kingdom will have no shortage of sapphires for the next hundred years. I simply request that you prove your abilities to me.”

That snaps the Prince out of his constant eye-contact with the expensive bag. “Prove?”

His now-client nods. “Prove it. I should hope that the eradication of Prince Yuta shan’t prove too daunting- and for that, I wish to know what other…deeds you have accomplished, Your Highness.”

“The burning of the Inumaki kingdom’s crops.” Naoya immediately blurts out—before he lists off his family’s proud accomplishments as though he was listing off a market list. The other man nods with an unreadable expression. “The…displacement of the Cursed rubies, the demotion of the Ijichi household, the framing and eradication of the Gojo family-”

“Oh?” At that last one, he looks more alert. “Kindly elaborate on that final one, it seems to have ah…piqued my interest.”

Naoya hesitates- before a single glance at the sapphire sack makes him talk once more. “It was prior to my birth, thus the details might not be as adequate. Essentially what happened had to be done- the Gojo royals were advancing their economy in leaps and bounds—far too rapidly, far too soon.”

As he continues, an almost proud smile twitches at his lips. 

“It was ingenious- really.” He hums, “Just a few forged letters, just a single meeting with His Majesty-” Naoya gestures vaguely at this palace. “And he became convinced that the Gojos were planning battle over the borders.”

Naoya spits.

“Borders? Pah- what borders?” He’s pacing now, hands clasped behind his back—back turning to the other man as the Prince stares into the licking fireplace. “Come dawn, the palace was painted in red. Ministers. Mongrels. That King and Queen- the cowards begged for mercy, were you aware?”

Silence stretches.

It seems like an eon passes before the man’s answering - in a rough tone that punctures the silence. “I…I was not aware, no.”

Naoya huffs out haughty laughter.

“And what of their son?”

The Prince looks at the other man over his shoulder, brows pinched in confusion. “They had no son.”

“No.” The sword is pulled out of his scabbard. “They hid Gojo Satoru well.” 

It embeds deeply in the junction between Naoya’s shoulder and his neck—and his scream is silent. Expression twisted into shock as those final words registered - Gojo Satoru. Even in death, he hears his name. 

Much louder than Naoya’s scream was the impact of his cold, dead body hitting the carpeted floor - and almost instantly, Prince Okkotsu Yuta enters the chambers. “I have recorded the confession, uncle, and the troops are storming the Zenin palace as we speak.”

“Good.” Michizane pulls his sword out and watches as blood creates a painting across the brick fireplace and floor. He wipes it off using what would have been Prince Naoya’s engagement robes, and places it back in his scabbard. 

Yuta takes a step closer to offer a clean wipe to his uncle, “Should I summon a court meeting at once?”

“No.” Michizane takes it and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he nods at Yuta to collect the bag of precious sapphires, “I have a far more important affair to attend to.”

.

.

.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

Both you and Gojo startle awake- and a single glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows reveals sunlight filtering in. A soft breeze rustles the sheer curtains…and Gojo’s beautiful locks right beside you.

It wasn’t the first time that you were waking up next to him.

But it was the first time it was…in such a manner.

You’re tugging on the satin blanket- of which you were wearing nothing underneath. Bare. Barely holding yourself back from him. And Gojo smiles to himself as the thought seems to occur to him, as well, reaching over to kiss you—before wincing at the red, red nail marks that twinged with movement. 

You’re leaning in as well—

But then two things occur to you:

It must have been at least midday.

Someone was at the door.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

More insistent this time.

The two of you look at each other.

Then at the door.

Then at each other.

Gojo jumps to his feet, throwing off the blankets and attempting to dive underneath your bed- but you’re raising a hand to stop him. Shaking your head imperceptibly. “No…”

“My princess?” Gojo asks.

“I believe there comes a time where one must stop running.” You’re speaking, more to yourself. And in a quick fashion you cross the room to don your satin robe—Gojo manages to bunch up a few blankets that cover his bits. You shake your head and scour for one of his casual night garments from underneath your bed - throwing it at his head.

“For all the princess in the land-”

“Oh, perhaps I ought to hand you to the guards.” The guards that were surely outside. Perhaps waiting to accuse you of treason for shattering the Zenin union. Perhaps ready to embarrass you and your jester in front of the royal courts.

Whatever it shall be - whatever the price may be for loving Gojo Satoru - you’re raising your head high and taking it like a ruler. 

You open the doors, and outside stands…

Michizane?

He looks just as startled as you, though he manages out a rough smile. “May I see the ring?” 

You’re unsure what he means—and you’re considering telling your guards to escort him away, when Michizane peers inside your bedroom and locks eyes with Gojo. Gojo who seems to startle the instant that blue, blue gaze meets his. Perhaps…

And then he’s stepping forwards- pushing the door open ever-so-slightly further open.

And presenting his left hand - with the silver signet ring still upon it. A hollowed gasp leaves the older man, and he’s clasping Gojo’s hand in his own trembling, timid ones—holding it as though it was the most prized treasure in this world. Buried for eons. 

Gojo’s voice sounds scratchy, “I-it is not my possession to don-”

Michizane shakes his head. 

“I believe…” He looks between the two of you, bright eyes twinkling with tears. “-that there is much we need to speak of.”

.

.

.

There was to be a royal wedding.

There was to be a royal wedding.

There was to be a royal wedding.

The union between yourself and the long-lost prince of the Gojo kingdom. 

After Michizane had explained to you both - let alone an astounded court - that he was the uncle of your beloved jester, that he was titled royalty, and that Gojo himself…was the sole survivor of a gruesome attack that the Zenin family had orchestrated…Gojo didn’t believe it. Not at first.

Not that someone knew his life before this life.

Not that someone had come to…save him. Because Michizane didn’t - to Gojo, it had been you. And it forevermore shall be.

But you could see the fearful hope - almost unwelcome on his face - as Michizane explained that he hadn’t known about the status of the Gojo heir, his nephew, before the engagement ball. He was so young, he must have forced himself to forget such a traumatic ordeal. Thus, it had always been assumed that he had perished along with his brother and his wife—though Michizane couldn’t find a small body amongst the carnage. 

And so he had always hoped…always, always…

And it had been the signet ring (looted by the Zenins and gifted to your father, no doubt) that roused his suspicions. Then those eyes. That hair. That smile, like his mother’s.

It had to have been him.

Fearing such an attack, had the late Gojo royals not kept the birth of their son a secret, then his features would have gotten him poisoned before he even stepped foot into the royal court. The cap n’ bells masked more than one would think. 

The scheme to expose the Zenins had been planned beforehand - being the only reason that Michizane even attended the ball in-person. And he’d thought that perhaps finding his late nephew’s look-alike had been a good omen.

Had been…

Oh, he just had to confirm it for himself. Especially after Naoya had affirmed that the Zenin’s hadn’t been aware of any son. 

Michizane could see the Gojo name in the boy. And so he was right. 

Acceptance had taken long hours cooped up in the numerous palace libraries—poring over history books, and rewriting ones that misunderstood.

During this time was when you’d iron-handed your ministers into changing the law that ‘only a prince shall marry a princess’. Of course. 

Long days and longer conversations.

Gojo had finally accepted that he was the sole righteous heir to the throne of Gojo by the time he’d ascended to the throne. It had occurred during a coronation too grand for words - of which you were the honored guest, of course.

Michizane had accumulated vast sapphire mines during his time away, and the Gojo kingdom’s infrastructure was soon able to recuperate their losses. Though not all of it…certainly some wounds would take time.

But the first time that Gojo stepped through those familiar palace walls, he cried as if it were a dream. And he’d said as much—“I had believed it was a dream- oh, I believed this was all a dream. This is my home.” As he embraced you in the middle of the royal lobby, you could agree with the sentiment. “You are my home.”

The first portrait that one saw when they entered the palace - moved by Michizane from Gojo’s former chambers to the main hallways - was one of his mother, his father, and Gojo himself.

Just an infant with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile.

He had his father’s eyes, but his mother’s smile. 

After Gojo’s crowning, the borders of the Gojo kingdom were reestablished - all territories and citizens that surrounding kingdoms (as well as yours) had absorbed were handed to their rightful ruler.

His kingdom was new…but building. And fast.

Then Gojo had gotten to work helping right all of the Zenins’ wrongs. He aided in expanding the Inumakis’ agricultural lands, he returned the Cursed rubies that had been embedded in Naoya’s coronet to lord Sukuna, he promoted the Ijichi household’s titles twofold. 

And he rebuilt his own family. 

Of course, the Zenins themselves met their rightful fate. Prince Yuta had attacked their palace and numerous fortresses, causing those family members to be impounded. Some fled but were quickly caught—in part due to General Yaga’s tireless assistance. 

Gojo had insisted that the children grow up in his palace. And though you’d been befuddled at first - most certainly you wouldn’t allow them to be hurt…but as for raising them yourselves over placing them in noble homes - you quickly registered that Gojo simply didn’t want history to repeat itself.

Above all, he took in young Fushiguro Megumi as a ward.

The trials for the other family members were currently ongoing.

But, recently, there was a new event that shook your kingdom. 

The wedding. 

Not one of political nature…but rather love. No matter the class, position, or power the two of you held—you would always be his princess, and he your best friend- oh alright…your jester. But solely because Gojo still loved to act a-fool to make you laugh. 

Your father had no choice but to approve your wedding to such a powerful young King. Why would he risk such strong political ties? Why would he risk your abandonment?

Your people throw snow-white petals of gardenia as the wedding carriage passes through the streets- on its way to a honeymoon voyage before setting down in a newly-built palace between his kingdom and yours. Megumi would live there, too, and of course you’d convinced your most-trusted attendants—Utahime and everyone else that had readied Gojo that night of the engagement ball - to reside there, as well. 

Not as servers, but with titles. With General Yaga as your head of guards.

You couldn’t be happier. 

Gojo holds your hand. Wedding band on his left ring finger, the Gojo signet on his middle.  

Faces beamed and cheers soared as you two passed by in your dream-like carriage—upon a cloud. And though the kingdom had been decorated until one nearly couldn’t spot a single roof, Gojo only had eyes for you.

He’s unabashed as he leans down to publicly kiss you. 

Now that he finally could, the boy that had once been jester.

“Satoru.”

“My queen.”

So you didn’t really lose any sleep over lack of romantic partners, too focused on school and work for the absence to really be noticed. Sure, there would be a cute classmate or two that would catch your eye, and you’d appreciate them from a distance. They all fit your usual preference of traditionally masculine, athletic guys who were easygoing extroverts. You liked competence, and a potential partner of yours needed to be confident, commanding.

So yeah, maybe you did have a type. Everyone had preferences and you were no different. You didn’t really picture yourself straying from those preferences either, couldn’t picture yourself with someone shy or super introverted. Until now.

He was a transfer student, partway into his sophomore year in the psychology program, same as you, though this was your first year. You shared the same 10 am human development lecture, meaning you saw him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning.

You never would’ve considered Choso your type. You’d never really been into the whole emo look. Sure, you’d enjoyed your fair share of Panic at the Disco and Paramore in middle school, but scene hadn’t really been your, well, scene.

You wouldn’t have ever listed all black clothes, smudged eyeliner, painted nails, or heavy silver jewelry in your list of characteristics you typically found attractive. Yes, Choso was tall and muscular. He had tattoos, including an odd line across the bridge of his nose onto his cheeks. These were all things you knew you found attractive.

But for as bold as his style was, he was quite shy. He never volunteered answers in class, only responding when called on in a quiet, almost self-conscious voice. He should speak with more confidence, you would think whenever he gave his answers, given that they were always intelligent and well-said. You never thought you liked shy types, preferring guys that could speak up and could offer up confidence in situations where your anxiety might get the best of you.

However, you couldn’t deny the way your eye was always drawn to him. He sat in the first row on the far right hand corner. You sat a couple rows behind him, more towards the center, meaning you got a fairly clear view of him. When he wasn’t taking notes, he was drawing little doodles in the margins of his notebook. You often found yourself wondering what they were.

He was cute, in his own way. He seemed quite sweet and polite, offering notes to a classmate who'd been out sick or a helping hand when the girl next to him was confined to walking on crutches. You knew some of the other girls in your lecture didn’t view him the same way. You attended a private school, a very elite one. Between your stellar grades and test scores, as well as a fairly high financial need, you had earned yourself a full ride to the university. And while the education and accommodations and features on campus were stellar, you had found that private school meant students with private school money—and the attitude that came with it. Entitled, privileged, and, in the case of the aforementioned girls in your lecture, catty fucking bitches.

You’d heard them whisper and giggle amongst themselves over Choso. Judging his clothes, his hair—you found his short space buns rather adorable—and how he’d sometimes stutter when answering questions. You often found yourself grinding your teeth, wanting to turn and cuss them out over their bitchy remarks. Choso was genuine and unpretentious in the way that pretty much everyone else at the university wasn’t, and you found yourself wanting to defend him. To protect what you were positive was a sensitive, artistic soul.

You often found yourself wondering what he did outside of class. Did he like to draw? You’d seen his little sketches in his notebook, maybe he liked drawing legitimately, in sketchbooks instead of college ruled paper. Maybe he liked to game? He seemed like he would enjoy PC gaming. Despite being outwardly withdrawn, Choso seemed like the type to be intensely dedicated to his interests, and you found yourself wanting to know what they were.

You were delighted to find out that your interest was shared.

It started with a partner project your professor had shared with the class on Monday. Partners were randomly chosen and the rest of class was spent exchanging contact information and planning out a rough timeline and ideas for the project. You had cheered internally when your name popped up next to Choso’s. Sliding into the now-vacant seat next to his, you’d smiled and introduced yourself. Choso had blushed furiously, ducking his head and quietly giving you his name in response.

You formed a theory that day, one that was proven correct by the next class.

Choso had a crush on you.

He was horrible at hiding it, always blushing or stuttering when talking to you, never able to look you in the eye. And despite how protective you’d felt towards him against those judgemental bitches that sat near you in lecture, you couldn’t help but tease him a little bit.

Leaning in and smiling softly when he spoke, not breaking eye contact when you’d prop your chin on your hand to listen intently to what he was saying. His eyes would widen and a furious blush would spread across his cheeks, and he would lose track of whatever he’d been saying. His reaction would prompt an even more mischievous glint in your eye and sharpness in your smile, in turn making him even more nervous. When you suggested meeting up in the library or his apartment, he’d choked on his sip of water. You’d just grinned.

You’d decided the library was probably a better way to ease Choso into spending time with you without him having a heart attack. Baby steps.

The afternoon you two decided to get together for your project was a rainy one. A very rainy one. The brief mad dash from the bus to the entrance of the library had left you soaked, and now you stood in the air conditioned library shivering so hard your teeth clacked.

Your slow, shivering footsteps to the third floor where you and Choso had agreed to meet left wet footprints along the floor. You swore that this floor was even colder, and you tried to wrap your damp cardigan around yourself in attempt to chase away the goosebumps that had covered your skin. Your footsteps faltered, however, when you spotted Choso sitting at a table in front of a window. He was backlit by stormy gray skies and occasional bursts of lightning. He hunched slightly over what he was working on, brows furrowed in concentration. He was drawing, you realized, and you stood there for what was probably a creepy amount of time, but the warmth that blossomed in your chest as you watched him was addicting.

Until the cold that had seeped into your very bones wrenched a violent sneeze from you. Choso startled and looked up, eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, which most likely resembled a drowned cat.

“Oh,” he breathed, standing up so fast his chair tumbled back. He scrambled to the chair next to him, wrestling something off the back of it. As he rushed towards you holding a mass of black fabric you realized it was his jacket.

Heavy leather settled over your shoulders and you were suddenly wrapped in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne. His dark eyes were scanning all over your body as if searching for injuries, his brows pulling together in worry.

After a long moment of you two staring at each other, you finally remembered to give him a softly whispered, “Thank you”.

He blushed, ducking his head and abruptly stepping back as if he’d just realized how close you two were standing. His big hand, adorned with heavy silver rings that glinted in the low light, came up to rub the back of his neck.

“I doubt you’d be comfortable studying here in wet clothes,” he said suddenly. “I-if you want we can stop over in my dorm and you can borrow some clothes.” You were quiet for a second, surprised that he’d invited you into his space given how shocked he'd been when you’d first brought it up. Mistaking your surprise for reluctance, he rushed out, “O-only if you want to of course. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He looked adorably horrified at the idea.

Not wanting him to panic any longer, you grinned at him. “I’d love to.”

This time around, you fared a bit better on your journey to the bus stop since you had Choso’s large jacket to shield you from the worst of the rain. You relished in the warmth and the scent of his cologne, and the fact that you were dwarfed by his jacket. You chanced a glance up at Choso and admired the way he towered over you despite the way he hunched his shoulders as if to appear smaller. He had not fared so well in the rain; his hair had fallen out of its knot and the strands stuck to his face, highlighting its sharp lines and angles. His eyeliner had smudged slightly, contrasting with the paleness on his skin. Instead of looking like the dripping mess you had, he looked like he had stepped out of rainy ad for designer clothes or cologne or something. It was rather unfair.

The whole bus ride to his apartment, you could see him stealing glances at you from the corner of your eye and it took everything in you not to grin. You wanted Choso, and you delighted in the fact that he wanted you just as bad, if not more so.

His apartment was small, but tidy and clean. It was well decorated too, but you weren’t too surprised by that. There were pretty paintings and drawings lining the walls, with art supplies and trinkets scattered across nearly every flat surface. You spotted an electric guitar leaning against an amp in the corner.

The smell of his cologne was practically woven into the air in here, and it was all you could do to not gulp down deep breaths of it with every inhale.

As you as you two had stepped inside, Choso had immediately started rambling nervously, apologizing for the mess and letting you know you could borrow any clothes you wanted, and did you need anything? Like a water or a—

“Choso,” you interrupted gently, “do you mind terribly if I hop in your shower?”

“Oh! Of course! Um, let me grab a spare towel and some clothes and—” his voice faded as he started rushing towards his room, and you trailed after him with a soft smile on your face.

You had been about to invite him to join you in the shower before he excused himself to his room and told you to shout if you needed anything. Slightly disappointed, but not discouraged, you’d nodded and headed towards the bathroom.

Little did you know that as soon as the bathroom door closed, Choso was stripping down to his boxers and lying back on his bed, palming his cock through the fabric as he desperately tried, and failed, not to imagine you naked in his shower. Covered in soap and shrouded by steam, looking oh so perfect like you always did.

He tried to stifle the tortured groan that tore out of his chest. His hand was rough over his cock, handling it without finesse as he tried to get himself to stop. He felt so, so guilty, but the mental image of you glistening under the water mere feet away from him made him feel so, so good. Heat tightened in his gut as he fished his dick out of his boxers and started to viciously pump his hand up and down the shaft, biting his forearm to stem desperate cries of your name.

Pressure built in his gut, stomach tensing as he hurtled towards the edge. White covered his vision as he came suddenly and violently, his orgasm ripping through him like a storm. It was only as he laid there trying to catch his breath that his ears stopped ringing that he realized the shower had stopped.

Panic shot through him as he leapt up, blindly searching for clothes and something to wipe the cum off his stomach.

You stepped into the room to find Choso in sweatpants, his chest heaving and looking slightly guilty as his hands wrung together nervously. He opened his mouth to say something, before he registered what you wearing.

His t shirt was huge on you, nearly hanging down to your knees. Your collarbones peaked out from the collar of the shirt, your damp hair hanging down in gentle waves over your shoulders.

This domestic, intimate version of you, standing in his apartment wearing his clothes left Choso speechless and his mind short circuiting. You smiled softly at him and his heart stuttered.

“I, um",” he couldn’t get any words out, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“Choso,” you said gently, and his eyes snapped to yours, a guilty flush spreading over his cheeks.

“I’m sorr-” he started, but cut off as you shushed him and stepped closer. His heart damn near stopped as you raised you hand to touch his chest. Your delicate fingers drew graceful lines over the designs of his tattoos, tracing the whorls of ink that covered his chest.

“Did they hurt?” you whisper, transfixed by the sight of how small your fingers looked against the wide expanse of his shoulders and chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, hardly daring to breathe in fear of breaking whatever was happening in this moment. He nearly tipped his hand back and groaned when you pressed your entire hand against his chest. He had no doubt that you could feel the way his heart raced under your palm.

Your breathing synced with his, and he tipped his chin down to take in the sight of you standing so close to him with your hands on his skin. This time, as your other hand came up to press against his stomach, he couldn’t stop his groan.

His eyes shut in embarrassment and he opened him mouth to apologize, but you cut him off.

“Choso,” you whispered. He eyes opened and landed on you. The way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing in the room worth looking at, filled you with warmth and confidence.

“Yes?” he whispered back and you grinned.

“You should kiss me,” you told him, and his dark eyes widened.

“What"?” he sputtered in surprise.

“Kiss me,” you repeated and smiled at him.

With another groan, he hand came up to cradle your jaw and he pressed his lips to yours. You were immediately addicted to the taste of him. He worked his mouth over yours feverishly, his other arm coming up to wrap around your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him and trapping your arms between the two of you.

You were expecting something soft. Something shy and sweet from the boy who’d steal glances at you during psych lectures. You were not expecting this.

Choso’s tongue surged into your mouth, making you moan and run your hands up to his shoulders to grasp at him. He was practically curled around you to reach your mouth, he was that much taller than you. You startled when you felt the clack of metal against your teeth, before your pussy clenched at the realization that Choso had a tongue piercing.

He ate at you like he was starving, and the hand at your jaw moved as he crouched down slightly. You pulled away a little, confused and wanting to see what he was doing. Choso gave a displeased grunt at the distance before wrapping that arm under your ass and yanking you back to his mouth.

He now held you in the air like you weighed nothing as you two made out, heavy breaths and wet sounds from your mouths the only thing that could be heard in the room. You curled your hands in his black strands and pulled on them roughly, earning a grunt from Choso.

He spun with you in his arms, blindly walking towards the direction of his bed. Your mouth ripped from his in a soft cry as you two fell back on to the bed, your stomach swooping from the quick drop.

For a moment, Choso hovered over you, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe you were really here. You took in your fill of him as well. His handsome face and silky hair. The muscles that bunched at his shoulders and biceps and pecs. The veins that corded his forearms and hands. You couldn’t believe the girls in your class didn’t find him ridiculously hot.

Choso must’ve snapped out of whatever awed trance he’d been in, because he swooped back down to devour your mouth, a muscular arm wrapping around you once more to yank your body to his. Your back arched and you moaned at the feel of hard muscle and hot skin along your bare thighs as you wrapped your legs around him.

He thrust helplessly against you at the sound, as if your moans and cries controlled his body. When you moaned and gasped “Again!” he began grinding against you, grunts and groans of his own leaving his mouth as his tongue traced every inch of your mouth, the cool metal ball of his piercing tracing each path.

Heat had spread through you, and need burned like fire low in your tummy. You were soaked and desperate to show Choso that you weren’t wearing anything under his t shirt.

“Off,” you groaned, yanking at his sweatpants. “all of it.”

At first he didn’t move, as if he couldn’t bear to be away from you even for a moment, but when you tugged on his waistband again he almost tripped over himself as he rushed to rip off his clothes.

Silence descended over the room, with only the sound patter of rain outside softly filtering in.

You knew Choso was a big guy. He towered over you and his shoulders were practically doubled the width of yours. You knew he was muscular, even more so than you’d initially thought as you stared at his naked body. Each muscle was rock hard and defined, as if a sculptor had taken extra care to run a chisel along every line of him.

And you could’ve spent hours looking at and running your hands over his arms, his chest, his back, his thighs; you could’ve spent hours idly tracing your fingertips over every line of his tattoos that lovingly hugged his body. Hopefully some day you would. But now, one thing on his body was stealing all of your attention.

Choso was huge.

Hard and thick and throbbing. So heavy that it hung between his thighs instead of springing up. Veins wound around the shaft towards his head that was already leaking pre. The pretty pink of his dick belied the fact that Choso was packing a fucking monster.

“Holy shit,” you breathed as you stared at his cock. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it, partially in arousal and partially in shock.

“Is… is it... okay?” Choso, the poor thing, asked uncertainly. You finally tore your eyes from his throbbing cock to look into his soulful puppy dog eyes.

“You’re huge, Choso,” you said, stating the obvious.

Or not so obvious. To Choso at least, given the fact that he glance down at his own cock and looked back at you and asked, “Is it?”. You almost laughed, before you realized he was genuinely asking. (He was too embarrassed to say that he’d found himself to be about the same size as the dicks he’d seen in porn, apparently not aware that porn stars did not reflect the size of the average population.)

“Yeah baby,” you responded, “you’re really, very big.” At that, Choso whined and grasped at his cock, rutting into his hand as your words made him twitch and leak even more.

“Can I… what do you want me to do?” Choso asked, desperation bleeding into his tone as his hand pumped his cock like he couldn’t help it.

“Come here, Cho,” you whispered, and he lurched towards you as if yanked by a leash. He practically fell over you, one arm catching himself as he planted a knee on the bed, eyes never leaving you.

Slowly, you leaned forward, close enough that you were breathing each other’s air, before you leaned back in order to lift his t shift off your body. Choso made a sound halfway between a groan and a sob as he realized you were completely naked underneath.

“Please,” he whimpered, the hand on his dick squeezing the base violently now to stop him from cumming just from the sight of you.

“Touch me, Choso,” you told him softly, curious to see what he’d do first.

Which, apparently, was to dive face first into your pussy.

You cried out, hands flying down to grip his hair as he swiped his tongue in a fat stripe over the entire length of you. If you hadn’t been so shocked, you would’ve been embarrassed by how loud the wet slurp a single swipe of his tongue had elicited from your pussy due to how fucking soaked you were for him.

He dove the fuck in, practically nuzzling your cunt as he thrust his tongue into you. You groaned, eyes fluttering and back arching. Every time you made a sound or called his name he sucked at you even harder, licked at you even rougher. Every movement of his mouth caused wet slurps and squelches to sound from between your legs, your pussy dripping for him. You could feel his piercing caress you with every swipe of his tongue.

He alternated between long licks and deep thrusts of his tongue inside you, neglecting your poor clit that throbbed for attention. The longer he went, the more desperately it pulsed as wetness poured from you.

“Please Cho,” you begged, using your grip on his hair to pull his face even tighter against you. He was practically smothered in your pussy, not that he seemed to mind. His groan vibrated through you, causing you to groan as well. “Please.”

At your second plea he relented, wrapping those pouty lips around your clit and sucking, hard, the metal of his piercing pressing perfectly into the underside of your clit. You nearly screamed as you came without warning, throwing your head back against the pillows as the dam broke. Heat pulsed through you as your hips rolled against Choso’s mouth. Your orgasm left you so wet you could hear Choso drinking you down as you slowly came down from your high.

You melted into Choso’s bed as he raised his head to look at you. The sight of him, dark shiny eyes looking at your from between your thighs, big veiny hands gripping the fat of your hips so hard you’re pretty sure you’ll find bruises in the morning, made you clench around nothing.

“Your fingers, Cho,” you panted, reaching down to cradle his cheek, “need you to get me ready to take your cock baby.” He gave a tortured groan, burying his face against one of your thighs as he ground his hips into the bed. With a parting kiss to your leg, he leaned back on his haunches and brought a hand to your sensitive, pulsing pussy.

You gasped, stomach heaving as his thick fingers swiped up the seam of you before pressing inside. A single one of his fingers was like two of yours, and you rolled your hips to pull him deeper. He groaned, starting to pump his finger into you roughly, soon adding a second finger.

You could feel the cool metal of his rings against your flushed, burning hot cunt. Each press of his fingers inside made a wet squelch, and when he curled his fingers against your front wall you began crying out. When he slowly eased a third finger inside of you and pressed all three fingers up against that spot, you screamed as another orgasm wracked through you. Your legs shook, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back as you came so hard it almost hurt.

Choso had wrapped an arm around one of your bent legs, pressing a kiss to your knee as he continued to thrust into you gently, slowly spreading his fingers inside of you. Prepping you.

“C’mere,” you slurred, pulling him to your mouth even as his fingers stayed pressed inside you. You kissed him, hot and wet and filthy as you panted into his mouth. Choso slipped his free arm under your shoulders to pull you closer, your bare chests pressing together. He whimpered when you pulled at his hair roughly. You pulled away, a string of saliva hanging between your mouths.

“Please fuck me, Cho,” you whispered.

He couldn’t move fast enough, leaning back and pulling his fingers out of you so fast you cried out. He fumbled at his nightstand, pulling up a drawer to search for a condom. Briefly, you had the ridiculous thought of the poor cashier that had to ring up whatever crazy huge size of condoms Choso needed. The thought quickly vanished and your mouth went dry as you watched him roll the condom on. Despite how relaxed and wet you were for him, you were seriously doubting your ability to take this thing.

As if sensing your nerves, Choso raised his head to look into your eyes. His were big and pleaded, but searching for any sign of reluctance or discomfort.

“Come here,” you said, and he followed obediently, draping his big body over you and letting you pull his lips to yours. Your tongues swiped lazily at each other as you both panted into the other’s mouth. You made a game of searching for Choso’s piercing with the tip of your tongue, which seemed to drive him crazy.

Slowly, you reached down to grab his cock, trepidation seeping in as you grasped at the girth of him. Holy shit.

He whimpered against your mouth as you guided him towards your entrance, and bit at your lip as your pressed the tip of him inside. You had to work him against you for a second, spreading your lips around him until he slipped in with a slight pop. You groaned against his mouth and he froze, terrified that he’d hurt you.

“Holy fuck,” you whispered as you pulled him toward you to take a few more inches. You knew there was so much more left to go but already you were feeling the deep, aching stretch. “You’re so fucking big, Cho.” Your praise made him moan, and he leaned down to hide his face in your neck as his hips jerked forward at your words.

You let him take over, trusting him to watch and listen for any cues from you that you needed to stop, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Choso began to pull back the few inches you had already taken before slowly pressing back into you, feeding you a little bit more of him. He did it again, and again, starting a slow pace of gently thrusting more and more of him inside of you.

You clawed at his back, no doubt leaving stinging red lines behind, as you gasped in his ear. Each slow thrust felt like it was rearranged your insides, the stretch a deep ache that pulsed through your hips. After what felt like an eternity, you felt his pelvis press flush against yours, the hair of his happy trail tickling your tummy.

“Choso,” you gasped out as his shoulders heaved above you. He shook with the restraint it took to stay still, the blissful wet heat of you around him like heaven. He moaned your name in your ear and your body arched to press impossibly closer to his.

Your eyes rolled back as a mini orgasm shivered through you at just the feeling of taking all of him. He gave a helpless little cry and thrust his hips against you as he felt you pulsing around him.

“You can—hah—you can move now, baby,” you panted into his ear, and with a whine he immediately pulled back a few inches and thrust back into you hard. You cried out, fingernails dragging down his back as he did it again. And again. And again and again, until he was slamming into you with his arms wrapped tightly around your back, forcing you to arch into him as he desperately drove his hips forward with his face buried in your neck.

Distantly, you could hear the headboard slamming against the wall, and had the inane thought that his neighbors were most likely not happy campers at the moment.

Those thoughts were quickly knocked from your head at a particularly delicious thrust that had you arching your back and moaning Choso’s name, a breathy exhale into his ear that made him grind forward with a whine.

Veins popped out along Choso’s hands and arms, which were planted on either side of your head. Wrapping your hands around them, you ran them up his arms to feel the dips and curves of the muscles that strained from holding his weight up. He shuddered as your hands traveled up his arms, across his shoulders, and into his hair, tugging lightly.

“Fuck,” he grit out, dropping to one elbow and wrapping his other arm around your back to yank you against him. You could feel the hard lines of his abs against the soft skin of your stomach. And you swear you could feel the slight bulge of him in your tummy press out from inside of you against his abdomen. Your sweaty stomachs slid against each other as he thrust into you. Desperately, he slammed his mouth to yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth. You moaned into the messy kiss, tracing his tongue with yours and feeling the metal ball of his piercing caress it. When you sucked his tongue, his hips slammed forward viciously and you broke the kiss with a cry.

“Choso,” you gasped against his ear, “please.”

He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder and thrust in to the hilt, punching a pathetic little cry from you. The entire length of his inside of you stretched you ridiculously, and you felt him deep in your tummy, your entire body seeming to throb around him. One of your hands fisted his hair while the other dug nails into his shoulder when he started to grind his hips into you, hot and heavy and so, so good.

When your hips jerked up, Choso pulled his back a little, only to snap them forward back into you, as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from your wet heat. Each of his short, powerful thrusts ended with a filthy grind against, making the veins that twisted along his shaft hit every sensitive spot inside you, lighting you up like a live wire.

The arm he had wrapped around your back slid lower, hoisting your hips up in the air. The change in angle meant that his length slid along your g spot with every slick slid in and out. Light flashed behind your eyes and white hot pleasure burst over every inch of you. Your skin felt like it was on fire as your tummy coiled tightly.

With a shout of his name, the pleasure exploded, and you practically sobbed as wave after wave swept over you. Wetness poured from you, coating Choso’s shaft and stomach. You could hear him groan at the sensation and the way his hips stuttered against you at the feeling of you pulsing around him.

With one final, desperate thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and bit down on your shoulder hard as he came. You shivered at the feeling of him throbbing inside you and the heat that spread along his covered cock. Deliriously, you half-wished you could experience the sensation of him cumming inside you without a condom, to have his cum spill out of you when he pulled out.

Your arms were wrapped around each other as you both fought to catch your breath. You could feel his large chest heaving against yours. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet your eyes, the soulful brown bottomless as he gazed wonderingly at you. You lifted a shaky hand to cradle his cheek, warmth spreading in your chest when his eyes closed in bliss and he nuzzled into your palm, turning his head to press a kiss to it.

He mumbled something that was completely muffled by the palm of your hand. You giggled, pulling your hand away in order to hear what he was saying, only for him to nip at your fingers. He grinned dopily at your shriek.

“What did you say?” you asked breathlessly, unable to resist meeting his goofy grin with a smile of your own.

Crimson bloomed across Choso’s cheeks, but he stared you down unwaveringly nonetheless.

“Will you go out with me?” he asked, and despite everything you two had just done together, you could tell he was nervous. And despite everything you two had just done together, his question launched a horde of butterflies in your stomach.

“I’d like that,” you respond, delighting in the wide grin that spread across Choso’s face. You reached up to brush away some of the dark strands of his sweaty hair that had fallen across his forehead.

“But before that, why don’t we hop in the shower?”

The next time your Human Development lecture met, you found yourself in the seat next to Choso’s, sitting close enough for your thigh to brush against his. His right hand was busy handwriting notes (you’d teased him about his refusal to upgrade to typing up his notes, but he’d insisted writing them down by hand was better for memorization), while his left rested on your leg, thumb sweeping idly back and forth across your thigh. You bit your lip to try and contain your grin, focusing intently on typing away at your laptop.

During a brief lull when your professor stepped away to the computer to pull up the next presentation, soft whispers reached you from a few rows back.

“so lame, why does he even—”

“no why he actually bagged—”

“please… doesn’t even look like he could—”

“probably… small dick… pathetic virgin—”

Anger simmered violently through you, and you found yourself clenching your jaw, imagining all the ways you could turn around and tell those fucking bitches to back off—you were pulled abruptly from your thoughts as Choso’s thumb swept of your leg again. You glanced at him and saw him give you a shy, sweet smile before turning back to his notebook.

You pressed your lips together, fighting off a smile once again. You settled back into your seat, facing forward as your professor started up his lecture.

Whatever. you thought to yourself smugly. They could think and say whatever they wanted, because at the end of the day, you were the one walking side to side after a night with your emo boyfriend.

choso had dropped out to focus on his band, 'exorcize'—gojo on vocals, geto on guitar, toji on bass, and him on drums.

the band had taken off, and after being personally invited to one of their gigs, a small introduction from choso had suguru immediately hooked.

that had been the moment everything shifted.

quiet nights of spectated drum practice while you studied or long meaningful conversations were gone, replaced by surprise visits from geto and sleepless evenings that left choso restless and uneasy.

deep down, in that hazy, stoned part of his mind, he knew he felt something for you. something raw, unacknowledged, and unrelenting.

“god, sugu' i seriously can’t! oh my god!”

he heard your cries, felt his stomach twist with a mix of disgust, anger, and jealousy. he couldn’t endure another sober second of listening to you plead.

his hand found a pre-rolled blunt in his dresser, lighting it with a red lighter you'd gifted him months ago, the smoke curling around him like a protective shield.

“c’mon, you can do it, just a few more! fuck!seconds!”

he hated him. but more than that, he hated the way suguru spoke to you.

the subtle degradation, the possessive control masked by perfect composure. choso knew you noticed it too. the way your fingers curled around anything you could grab when suguru got too close, too possessive. the way you'd shy away from him rather than leaning into him lovingly. and yet, you stayed.

it tore something inside choso, some raw, unpolished piece of himself that had never stopped wanting you.

“just a little longer, y/n, fuck, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the only thing that could dull the constant back-and-forth inside his head when it came to you. the only thing that dulled the voice in his head, from when you used to talk to him like he was the only man in the world. his addiction, his only vice.

~

morning

the brunette boy sat slumped on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other stretched across the coffee table. sunlight crept through the blinds, painting uneven lines across his face. his hoodie hung half-off his shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a blunt tucked behind his ear like muscle memory.

he looked fucking wrecked.

you padded out from the hallway, wrapped in a big t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. it hung too low on your thighs, smelled faintly like suguru’s cologne, and that made something twist in your stomach when you noticed choso glance at it once, then away with a twitch of his eye.

“good morninggg, cho” you said, trying to sound casual, cheerful, like nothing weird had happened last night.

he didn’t look at you right away. his thumb was tapping against the armrest, slow and rhythmic. “yo.”

you bit your lip, moving to the kitchen counter. the silence pressed between you like humidity. it felt different now, awkward, thick.

you’d never had awkward silence with him before.

“uh, you sleep okay?” you asked, trying to keep the mood somewhat lighthearted.

he finally turned to look at you. dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his tone came out flat. “yeah. where’s geto?”

your stomach fell to the floor. “huh?”

“suguru,” he said again, leaning back into the couch. “where’d he go?”

you blinked, your throat suddenly dry. “oh. um. he, uh, left early. he doesn't really stay the night...he sorta just comes whenever he wants and leaves when we're done.” you clear your trust trying so desperately to try and give this awfully awkward conversation some leeway.

choso didn’t say anything, he only nodded, eyes still lazy with the clear lack of rest. but you knew that look, his patience threatening to snap, the clear click of his neck.

“choso,” you said quietly, walking over a bit. “did you… uhm, hear us?”

his eyes found yours, staring right through your head. “mhm.”

you looked down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “oh my god. i thought you were asleep. i didn’t mean for you to...”

“s’alright,” he said, cutting you off, voice rough. “walls are thin, y’know, i get it, y/n.”

you winced. “was it... was it bad?”

he let out a low, humorless chuckle, the memory of his band mates grunts and your pretty gasps still fresh in his mind. “mhm. heard it all.”

you felt heat crawl up your neck, mortified. “shit, choso, i’m so sorry. i really didn’t think-”

“don’t worry 'bout it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “i’ll just sleep the morning away, got the gig tonight anyways, so it should be fine.”

you shied into yourself, wanting to say something to make it better, to make him better, but his tone a closed door.

so you offered the only thing that came to mind. “let me make you breakfast? as, like, an apology?”

he looked up, studying you for a second before nodding. “right... sure.”

you let go of a longgg breath and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing eggs and bread from the fridge.

you weren’t sure what he liked this early, he'll, he'd never really been up this early before, he usually slept until noon, leaving the scent of smoke and cereal bowls behind, but it felt like the right thing to do something. the clinking of pans filled the silence.

behind you, choso leaned his head back on the couch, eyes open, watching the sunlight catch beautifully in your hair as you moved. he wanted to stay annoyed, to keep that boundary up. but the sight of you, bare legs, hair messy, singing softly under your breath while cooking in the kitchen? that hit him in the dull, sore spot inside his chest.

“you should come to the gig tonight, if geto didn't already invite ya',” he said suddenly, voice low.

you glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “yeah, you want me to come?”

“i do.” he stretched, reaching for the blunt on the table but not lighting it yet. “you haven’t seen us play in a while.”

you smiled a little, flipping a piece of toast. “yeah, sure. i’ll come.”

he grunted something like approval, pretending not to notice how your eyes softened when you said it, the way your face lit up as you moved your hands.

you’d seen so many clips online, crowds packed like smelly sardines tight in dark centers, stage lights shining over exorcize as they played.

they weren’t just another college band anymore. they were it. the band everyone wanted to fuck, to be, to orbit around.

gojo with his wild white hair and stupidly perfect grin, toji’s quiet menace on bass, suguru’s calm confidence, and choso behind the drums, silent but magnetic, his hair sticking to his face, eyes half-lidded, lost in rhythm.

they all had that look, that raw, sexy allure that made people crave them like meth.

and you’d been there at the start of it. before the crowds, before the smoke machines and the afterparties. when it was just choso, hunched over a kit in the living room, half stoned, tapping out rhythms while you studied on the couch.

the smell of butter and coffee filled the apartment. you plated up the food, scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado, and brought it over to him.

“hereee you go,” you said in a sing song voice (trying your best to be not annoying but still welcoming), setting the plate in front of him. “a really shitty apology.”

he gave a small smile, lazy but real. “yum.”

you sat down next to him, tucking your legs under you. the couch dipped between you, and the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp this time. he picked at his food for a while, eating slow.

“seriously though, cho,” you said after a minute, eyes on your plate, “i’m really sorry about last night.”

he shrugged, chewing. “told you, s' fine.”

“it’s not fine,” you insisted, voice quiet. “that must’ve been… weird for you. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

choso let out a low snort, setting his fork down. “y/n. you were horny. you got dicked down. shit happens.”

you froze, staring at him with wide eyes, face flushing deep. “ew,”

he smirked a little, leaning back. “what? just sayin’. it's no big deal.”

“yuck, don't talk to me like i'm one of your little junkie friends!”

“why not? we're not friends now?” he asked, in a tone that was so laid back and careless it made you anger, “what are we then? don’t get all shy now, i'm tryna lighten the shitty mood.”

you swatted his hand away, embarrassed but smiling despite yourself. “stop it, we're just friends... it's just, just shut up.”

“yeah,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “heard that before.”

you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. for a sec, it felt like the old nostalgic times again.

easy, careful comfort setting back between you. but under it, he felt that same ache still there, low and continuous.

the thought of geto touching you, of your voice on the other side of the wall, it looped in his head like a bad overplayed katy perry song he couldn’t skip.

he finished his plate, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“thanks for breakfast, it was real good, y/n. you'd make a good housewife y'know,” he said.

“god just shut up,” you said with an all too dramatic eyeroll.

the quiet hung around again, except it felt more comfortable this time.

~

the studio reeked of ash and stale beer. gojo was already shirtless, sprawled across the leather couch, strumming suguru’s guitar with no real purpose.

“bro, put that down before you break a string,” suguru said, tone bored but edged.

“relax, i’m blessing it,” gojo said, flashing him a grin.

toji sat off to the side, bass in hand, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the day. he didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to, his presence was enough to keep the room balanced.

gojo noticed the slight tire in getos purple eyes and decided to pry. “so,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “you look fucked, man. late night?”

suguru stretched his arms overhead, dark hair falling into his face. he smirked like he couldn’t help it. “mmm, something like that.”

“oh, come on,” gojo said, grinning. “you can’t just say ‘something like that.’ i need details, you fuck some chick, or?"

toji gave a quiet snort but didn’t look up from his tuning. “you gossip more than a fucking teenager, huh?”

“yeah, keeps me in shape.” gojo’s grin widened. “so? do tell.”

suguru’s smirk deepened, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “you know, just y/n.”

“shit,” gojo said, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “again? chosos little roommate? thought she was too sweet for you or whatever shitty excuse you made last time you slept with her and dipped.”

suguru shrugged. “sweet doesn’t mean boring.” he spoke like he was discussing a setlist, casual, detached. “can't stop going over to her place man. she's a great fuck, obedient, y'know? and tight as hell.”

gojo laughed under his breath. “oh yeah? she's sexy, sure, but i didn't know she had all of that going for her. you mind if i..."

“yeah, i do,” suguru said, unbothered. he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “she's only sucking my cock right now and i wanna keep it that way.”

gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “fair enough. so does she know about all the other pussy you get or?..." he teases.

"no. and she's not gonna. thinks i'm some fucking saint."

the way he said it made the air go strange—like they were both too comfortable talking about someone so badly who wasn’t even there.

toji glanced at them, expression flat.

“so what’s the deal then?” gojo asked, voice dropping just slightly. “you two dating?”

suguru’s tone turned dry. “not exactly. it’s just casual, a bit messy.”

“that mean she thinks you are and you don’t?”

little did the guys know, choso was standing in the hallway outside the studio, leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, hoodie drawn over his head. the door was slightly ajar.

at first he just wanted to pass, maybe pop in later when they started playing. but then he heard it—

“she’s a little too attached. wants to talk about everything. i don’t do clingy bitches,” suguru said, voice casual, almost bored.

choso froze.

“it’s fine. she knows what this is, if she gets hurt, that’s not on me.”

choso’s jaw tightened under the hoodie. his hands curled into fists, then unclenched. the smoke haze that usually clouded his head felt sharper now, stinging like cold air.

"does choso care? i mean, he's pretty much always high off his face so i doubt he'd even notice, but still. you can't be quite even if you tried." gojo added.

"nah, choso doesn't give a fuck about anything, i'm sure he doesn't care."

gojo just rolled his eyes and nodded along, clearly geto didn't know shit about his supposed friend.

choso was classical stoned, sure, but he was a deep thinker. although the never really voiced his opinions doesn't mean he doesn't have any. and the assumption that he doesn't care about you, the one girl he can actually feel himself around, feel comfortable with? it's a punch to the gut.

“plus, maybe he’s some sick cuck, maybe i’m doing him a favor fucking y/n loud enough for him to hear,” suguru said next, the words like a punchline to the room.

gojo laughed, oblivious, egging him on. toji’s bass sat idle, a quiet observer.

choso’s stomach twisted, sour and heavy, but his face stayed blank. he’d heard enough. everything he’d felt last night, the jealousy, the heat, the ache, pulled into a tighter knot in his heart and mind.

and still. he didn’t react to any of it. didn’t slam the door open or yell, he was too level headed for that kind of shit. he just let the words steep there, let the laughter flush over him. the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat became his anchor.

then, like he always did, he slipped into his usual mask. the hoodie covered his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt.

he pushed the door open, just enough to enter, and let his presence announce him.

“’bout time,” gojo said, lounging back on the couch, grinning like nothing was off, like he wasn't just talking questionably about him. “thought you were skipping rehearsal.”

“nah,” choso said, voice low, clipped, casual. “traffic was slow.”

suguru glanced up, immediately switching to his usual calm, lazy composure. “afternoon,” he said evenly.

choso gave a small nod, dropped his bag, and moved to the drum kit, adjusting cymbals without looking at anyone else.

but under the surface, the coiled anger, hurt, and frustration hummed. every tap of the drumsticks later would carry some of that weight, silent, restrained, but there.

gojo, pretending to be oblivious, grinned at him. “you good, man? look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“didn’t,” choso said, tone clipped.

gojo whistled, dragging the notion. “what, neighbor’s dog barking again?”

“something like that.” choso gave suguru a quick side glance before settling in further.

suguru’s hand stilled for a second on the fretboard. he didn’t look up, but he could feel choso’s eyes flick toward him.

toji caught the tension first, his gaze shifting between them. “you two done?” he asked dryly. “we practicing or what?”

choso exhaled, sitting down behind the kit. “yeah. let’s get it.”

the first few hits were slow, a warm-up rhythm, but every strike landed with more force than usual. the echo bounced around the room, sharp and deliberate, filling the silence that had started to suffocate the space.

gojo laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “guess that’s a yes.” he adjusted his mic stand. “alright boys, from the top.”

the noise erupted again, guitar, bass, drums, the controlled chaos of sound. it filled every corner of the studio, pushing back whatever words had hung there before.

suguru played clean, precise, every note in place, but his mind wasn’t entirely in it. he could feel the weight of choso’s rhythm behind him, each beat heavy, almost personal.

choso kept his head down, sticks moving fast, steady. he wasn’t thinking about the music. he was thinking about voices in thin-walled apartments, about laughter that sounded just like this. about how easily people could talk about something that still sat raw in his chest.

gojo sang through the chorus, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed. toji’s bass lines held everything together. and choso, he hit the drums like he was trying to keep from saying something out loud.

when the song ended, there was a moment of quiet, the kind that comes right after noise when everyone’s heart is still beating too fast.

“tight,” gojo said, wiping sweat off his face. “we’re gonna kill it tonight.”

“yeah,” toji said simply, setting his bass down.

choso nodded once, not looking at anyone.

suguru adjusted his guitar strap, clearing his throat. “we’ll meet back here at eight,” he said, tone easy. “venue’s expecting us by nine.”

choso started packing up his sticks. the others were still talking, voices fading into background noise. he kept his head low, eyes on the drum kit.

“yo, cho,” gojo said suddenly. “you bringing anyone tonight?”

choso hesitated. “y/n said she'd show.”

“ahh, she better,” gojo grinned. “need a familiar face in the crowd.”

suguru’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his strap.

choso zipped his bag and stood. “mhm. see you later.”

no one stopped him. the door shut quietly behind him, the sound echoing longer than it should have.

for a second, the three of them just stood there. gojo hummed, breaking the silence. “yeah, i think he heard you, and he definitely does care.”

suguru didn’t answer. he just stared at the door for a long moment before setting his guitar down, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.

toji rolled his shoulders and muttered, “doesn’t matter now. just shut up and focus on tonight's gig."

~

choso pushes the door to your apartment at around 7.p.m, his skateboard bumping against the wall as he toes his sneakers off. he decided to hit the skate park after the studio, and was just getting back now.

the apartment’s dark. not quiet-dark, off dark. no wannabe niche indie playlist humming from your room, no yellow light spilling down the hallway, no half-finished tea on the counter. just the faint sound of the fridge and the hanging scent of your coconut shampoo that always stuck in the air.

he squints toward the living room. nothing.

“yo, y/n?” his voice echoes a little. it sounds lazy, but underneath it’s got that edge, confused, half-worried. “you home, babe?”

nothing.

he pauses, drumming his fingers against his thigh. normally he wouldn’t think much of it, you liked to take long showers, disappear for coffee runs, but the place feels weird tonight. the kind of quiet that sits heavy.

“yo, for real, where the fuck are you?” he calls again, walking toward the kitchen, his hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from washing it after practice. the smell of weed clings to him, mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of cologne he must’ve borrowed from gojo.

he flicks on the hallway light, flinches a little at how harsh it is. the walls glow pale and flat. still no answer.

“y/n,” he mutters, a little louder now, “don’t fuckin’ do this horror movie shit. not in the mood."

he checks the balcony. empty. checks the bathroom, light off, door cracked. nothing. his chest tightens even though he keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, that you’re probably fine, that he’s overreacting like some clingy idiot.

then he hears faint music. a muffled bassline leaking through your bedroom door.

he exhales, tension leaving his shoulders all at once, muttering, “jesus, fuckin’. you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

he knocks lightly, then pushes the door open without waiting.

and freezes.

you’re standing in front of your mirror, airpods in, the faint shimmer of your lip gloss catching the lamplight. you’re half-dressed, black skirt, sheer tights, tiny top, and your hair sits perfectly like you didn’t even try. your room smells like warmth and perfume and clean skin.

for a second, choso forgets how to breathe.

“shit,” he says under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

you pull an airpod out and turn toward him, surprised. “oh my god, you scared me.”

he blinks slowly, eyes dragging up from your legs to your mouth, then back down again. “yeah, uh, my bad. place was dark. thought you got kidnapped or somethin’.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “kidnapped? really?”

he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “could happen. you never know. world’s fucked.”

you roll your eyes but smile. “well, i’m fine. just getting ready for the gig.”

“yeah, i can see that.” his voice dips lower without meaning to. “you look…” he pauses, tongue running over his teeth, trying to sound casual but it comes out rough. “fuck, you look hot as hell.”

you blink, heat crawling up your neck. “you think so?”

he nods, still rubbing his neck, eyes locked on you. “yeah. like, real talk, y/n, you’re gonna make it hard to focus tonight. literally everyone’s gonna be staring.”

you laugh, a little flustered. “you’re just saying that.”

“nah,” he says, finally walking into your room. “not just sayin’. like, you look fuckin’ insane. good insane, tho.”

you smile, looking back at your reflection, fixing your earring. “thanks, cho.”

he drops down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “you mind if i chill here? watch the whole… transformation process?”

“be my guestt!” you say, turning back to your mirror.

he leans back on his hands, watching you move. your drawers open, mascara wand twirling between your fingers, your skirt swishing when you shift. the music in your airpods leaks just enough for him to catch the rhythm.

he tries to stay cool, keeps that lazy look on his face, but his heart’s still pounding from the moment he saw you. his head’s full of too many things, practice, suguru’s voice, your laugh, the sound of his name coming from you.

after a minute, he says, “we gotta leave in, like, an hour. gojo’s picking up suguru and toji, you wanna ride with me or get there yourself?”

you turn around, surprised. “oh, i can come with you?”

“course,” he says, shrugging. “beats paying for parking. you'll be abit early is all.”

you grin. “then yeah, i’ll come with you, doesn't matter to me, cho.”

“aight,” he says, stretching his legs out, smirking just a little. “sweet.”

he’s quiet for a while after that. you keep getting ready, music still faintly playing, the smell of your perfume thick in the air. he fiddles with the ring on his thumb, his mind replaying suguru’s words like static.

she’s a great fuck, obedient and tight as hell.

she thinks i’m some fuckin’ saint.

maybe he’s some sick cuck.

the words crawl under his skin. he can’t stop hearing them, can’t stop imagining the look on your face if you knew.

he shifts, sits up straighter. “hey,” he says suddenly.

you hum in response, focused on your eyeliner.

“can i ask you somethin’?”

“sure.”

“what’s the deal with you and geto?”

you pause mid-stroke. “what do you mean?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “just… what are you two, exactly? like, are you dating or is it just some hookup thing?”

you blink at his reflection in the mirror, half-smiling. “why, you gonna make fun of me again for last night?”

he shakes his head. “nah. i’m serious.”

something about his tone makes you turn fully, leaning against your dresser. “oh. um…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i don’t know. i mean, i like him a lot. we hang out, we… yeah. i guess we’re dating? hes never actually said it, but it sure feels like it.”

he stares at you for a long moment, his chest tightening.

“you guess?”

“yeah.” you laugh softly, awkward. “he’s not, like, big on labels, i think. but we spend time together. he’s nice to me. i like being with him.”

choso nods slowly, but his face doesn’t change. “right. 'nice to you.'”

you frown, studying him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he looks away, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. “nothin’. just… didn’t figure him for the relationship type.”

“why not?” you ask, voice soft but curious.

he shrugs again, lazy like always, though his voice is heavier now. “he’s just… not the kinda guy who stays still, y’know? always got somethin’ else goin’ on. kinda hard to picture him with one person.”

you tilt your head. “you sound like you know him better than i do.”

“maybe i do,” he mutters.

“then tell me,” you say quietly. “should i be worried?”

his jaw tightens. he doesn’t answer right away. he wants to tell you, wants to let it spill out, the whole disgusting thing he heard at practice, the way suguru laughed about you like you were nothing but a story to pass around. it’s right there, sitting heavy on his tongue.

but when he looks at you, soft eyes, hopeful little smile, the way you look at him like he’s safe, he feels sick.

you’re too good for it. too sweet. too fucking naive to see how much he’s playing you, and he can’t stand the idea of being the one to shatter it.

“cho?” you ask gently.

he blinks. “yeah.”

“what were you gonna say?”

he opens his mouth, ready to just do it, to tell you everything, to ruin whatever fantasy you’ve built around suguru, but then your phone lights up on the dresser.

suguru calling.

you both look at it.

your heart jumps a little, that reflexive smile pulling at your lips. you grab the phone, swiping to answer. “hey.”

choso watches you, expression unreadable. your voice softens instantly, your tone sweet and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.

“yeah, i’m just getting ready,” you say, turning slightly away from him. “mhm… yeah, i’ll see you there, choso's driving me.”

his fingers drum against his knee. your voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. he can’t hear the words, only the ton, light, careful, like you’re trying not to say the wrong thing.

you laugh at something he says, that little laugh that used to be his favorite sound in the world.

and something in choso deflates.

he stands slowly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. your perfume still hangs in the air, heavy and warm.

“hey,” you say, glancing at him mid-call, mouthing, one sec, before turning back.

he nods, grabbing his keys from your desk where he’d dropped them.

you’re still talking, giggling now, saying something about how you’ll be there soon. he heads for the door.

“yeah,” you murmur into the phone. “love you too.”

his steps falter for half a second, then keep going.

the door clicks shut behind him, quiet.

you love him? god, how could he tell you after hearing that...

~

the venue’s already packed when you and choso pull up. neon bleeds across the cracked pavement, the sound of bass leaking through the concrete.

you can feel the pull of the crazy fans even from the street. drunk laughter, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke, someone yelling over someone else.

choso kills the engine and leans back in the driver’s seat for a second, watching people shuffle in through the side door. the light outside hits his face in flashes. pale, pink, blue, he’s fading between moods.

“you ready?” he asks, voice low, lazy, but you can hear something else under it.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your skirt, checking your lip gloss in the visor mirror.

he glances over, eyes flicking briefly down your legs before turning away again. “lookin’ like that, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ riot, man.”

you laugh softly. “you said that earlier.”

“yeah, and i meant it both times.”

you shake your head, smilin despite yourself.

inside, it’s chaos. the place smells like sweat and beer, lights flashing in dizzy loops, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. gojo’s voice echoes somewhere backstage, already hyping people up. you follow choso through the narrow hallway, your hand brushing his arm as someone shoves past. since when was he so muscular?

“sorry,” you say automatically.

he glances back. “nah, you’re good.”

he holds the side door open, letting you through first.

the band’s gear is scattered everywhere. amps, cables, beer cans, half-empty water bottles. suguru’s there, tuning his guitar, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

when he looks up and sees you, his expression softens into that easy smile that always used to make your stomach twist.

“hey, pretty thing,” he says, walking over.

choso looks away, jaw tight.

“hey,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him. his hand slips to your waist, the kiss short but a little too public, a little too look-at-me.

“you made it,” he murmurs.

“told you i would.”

behind you, gojo’s laugh cuts through the noise. “yo, choso, you finally dragged n/n outta her cave!”

choso smirks. “yeah, figured she could use a little culture.”

“culture, huh?” gojo grins at you. “hope you’re ready for noise complaints and groupies.”

“i’ll manage,” you say, smiling.

toji doesn’t look up from his bass, just gives a small nod in greeting. the whole room buzzes with the kind of pre-show tension you can feel in your teeth.

everyone’s running on nerves and caffeine and whatever else they’ve put in their systems.

choso tosses his hoodie onto a crate, rolling up his sleeves. he looks good like that, focused, hair half-tied, a strand falling over his cheek. he’s calm but sharp now, a different kind of energy from the stoned version of him you’re used to. the one who drifts through mornings in smoke.

“five minutes,” someone calls out from the stage manager’s booth.

you hover near the wall, watching them all get into place. gojo bounces on his heels, suguru spins his pick between his fingers, toji stays silent. choso’s behind his kit, tapping his sticks against the snare like he’s talking to it.

the crowd roars as the lights dim.

you press closer to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating through your shoes.

gojo’s voice hits the mic, smooth and arrogant. “we’re exorcize. don’t fucking blink.”

the first chord screams through the room, and everything shifts.

the sound is huge. overwhelming. suguru’s guitar cuts clean through the noise, toji’s bass a low pulse under it all, and then choso, he owns that rhythm. every hit lands deep, every movement controlled but raw, like he’s drumming out something that’s been living under his skin for years.

you seriously can’t take your eyes off of him.

he’s sweat-slick already, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. the lights flash white, then red, then blue across his face. every motion is deliberate, steady, like he’s trying to stay anchored in something only he can hear.

and even though the crowd’s losing their minds, it feels like it’s just him and the sound.

you glance at suguru. he looks good too, cool, collected, confident. but next to choso, he feels out of place, like a performative douche you knew deep down he was.

your chest squeezes together. you look back at choso.

there’s something odd in the way he plays tonight. like he’s exorcising something, (no pun intended.) every strike on the snare is much louder, almost angry and harsh. you ponder if it’s just adrenaline or if something happened earlier?.

when the first song ends, the crowd screams. gojo throws his head back, grinning, shouting into the mic. “holy shit! you guys showed up tonight!”

choso stays quiet, twirling his sticks, taking a long drink of water. his eyes flick toward the side of the stage, toward you.

you smile.

he doesn’t. just nods once, small, subtle, before looking away. the next song starts before you can think about it too long.

you dance a little, lost in it, letting the music carry you. but somewhere in the back of your head, you can feel his stare again. quick glances between beats, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks back down.

and for the first time, you realize you’re not sure which one of you it’s harder for.

by the time the set ends, you’re breathless from the noise, your voice hoarse from shouting. the band leaves the stage to cheers, sweat-soaked and buzzing. gojo’s the first to collapse backstage, laughing.

“we killed that shit,” he says, half-yelling.

“yeah, not bad,” toji mutters, towel over his head.

suguru grins, walking straight toward you. “told you we’d put on a good show.”

you nod, heart still racing. “you were amazing.”

he leans in to kiss you again, and you let him, even though your eyes flick over his shoulder for a second, to choso. he’s wiping sweat from his forehead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.

suguru pulls back, arm still around your waist. “so, you coming to the afterparty?”

you hesitate. “uh, yeah, i think so.”

“good.” he kisses your temple, then turns toward gojo to talk about something.

you stand there for a second, unsure of what to do with your hands. the noise of the room fills the space between you and choso. he finally looks up, trying to push aside the guilt he still felt for not being able to man up and tell you about suguru.

you smile, small and tired. “you were insane up there.”

he laughs, strong yet humorless, the phrase 'love you too' still haunting his every thought. “yeah? thanks.”

“no, really. i couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “yeah, well… guess i did my job.”

you step closer, voice soft. “you okay?”

he nods, eyes flicking briefly toward suguru, then back at you. “yeah. just… beat.”

you nod too, not sure what else to say. gojo yells something about shots, suguru laughs, and the night keeps moving around you.

but in the middle of all of it, you and choso stand there for a second, caught between the noise and the silence. like the whole night’s holding its breath, waiting to see which one of you breaks first.

~

the afterparty’s at some half-finished warehouse space two blocks from the venue, the kind of place that smells like spilled beer, sweat, and old amps. led lights are strung along exposed pipes, blinking unevenly. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out.

you walk in first, suguru’s hand laced with yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. you look good under the dim light, like you belong there, like you’re glowing even in the noise and haze.

choso follows behind, slower, his hoodie unzipped and hair sticking slightly to his forehead. he already smells of weed; he’d lit up the second they left the venue.

people yell greetings, offer shots, hugs, congratulations. gojo’s already got his arm around two people he definitely doesn’t know, yelling about how they fucking killed it tonight. toji’s slouched near a speaker, scrolling through his phone like none of this matters.

suguru doesn’t let go of you. not once. he keeps you close, leaning down every so often to murmur something in your ear that makes you laugh. he’s magnetic in these settings. composed, charming, eyes sharp enough to make anyone feel seen.

choso sits on a couch near the edge of the room, elbow draped over the back, watching through half-lidded eyes.

you look happy.

and for a minute, that’s enough.

he takes a drag, holds it, exhales slow. watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. you’re laughing at something suguru said, your head tipped back, eyes bright.

he can almost convince himself it’s fine.

you’re happy. maybe that’s all that matters.

but he can’t stop remembering the way suguru talked earlier at the studio, voice low, that half-smirk twisting his mouth as he said your name like it was something to toss away. you lean up and kiss suguru’s cheek, whisper something. he nods, still holding your waist.

“gonna go fix my makeup,” you say, smiling. “don’t move.”

he smirks. “not going anywhere, princess.”

you squeeze his hand and disappear down the hallway. choso takes another drag. exhales through his nose, slow. for a few seconds, suguru just stands there. then, like someone flipped a switch, his attention shifts.

choso notices it instantly, the way suguru’s gaze catches on someone across the room. tall girl. dark hair. red lipstick. she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some guy with a drink in her hand.

choso knows her. everyone does. she used to hang around the studio all the time. suguru’s old fling. the one he’d bragged about, laughed about, talked about like she was a good story, just like you. his shoulders tense.

suguru drifts over. slowly. easy. one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for a drink as he greets her.

she smiles like she’s been waiting.

he says something that makes her laugh, that same sexy smile sliding across his face, the same one he used when he looked at you five minutes ago. choso stares at them, heartbeat starting to pick up, jaw tightening around the joint.

he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. he can read the body language, the subtle lean, the flirtatious tilt of her head, suguru’s gross smile.

the same old shitty act.

he feels something stir in his chest, something dark and heavy. he looks toward the hallway, half expecting you to come back. you don’t.

he looks at suguru again, and his mouth moves before his brain can stop it. oh well.

“yo.”

his voice cuts through the music, quiet but sharp.

suguru glances over his shoulder. “hmm?”

choso’s still on the couch, but his tone’s much differnt, “you maybe wanna get your shit in order before y/n gets back?”

the girl looks baffled, stares between them, then takes a step back (yeah that's right).

suguru raises an eyebrow. “huh?”

choso leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his fingers. “you heard me.”

the room feels quieter even though the music’s still playing.

suguru laughs once, soft, incredulous. “you serious right now?”

“deadass.”

he looks away for a second, shakes his head like he’s amused. “you’re high, choso.”

“not that high.” choso stands up, slow and deliberate. “i just don’t like watching you act like a fuckin’ idiot when she’s not even gone five minutes.”

suguru’s jaw tightens, that calm exterior starting to crack just a little. “what’s it to you?”

“what’s it to me?” choso echoes, stepping closer. “she’s my roommate, dumbass. i actually give a shit if she gets hurt.”

“roommate,” suguru repeats, his smirk returning. “that what we’re calling it?”

“yeah,” choso says flatly. “that’s what we’re calling it.”

suguru laughs again, but it’s sharper this time. “come on, man. don’t tell me you’re getting protective. that’s cute.”

choso doesn’t smile. doesn’t scoff. “just don’t be the asshole i know you can be, yeah?”

for a second, something flickers behind suguru’s eyes. annoyance, maybe? guilt. or nothing at all. he looks away, taking a sip of his drink. “you don’t know what you think you know, choso.”

“nah,” choso says quietly. “i know exactly what i heard.”

suguru’s gaze snaps back to him. “what?”

“the studio,” choso says, voice steady. “you should watch you have to get more toilet paper what you say when you think nobody’s listening to you talk shit.”

suguru freezes, for a long moment, neither of them move.

then suguru laughs again softly, controlled. “you think you know what that was about.”

“don’t need to think,” choso says. “you said it clear as day.”

“she’s a big girl,” suguru says after a pause, voice low. “she can handle herself.”

choso’s eyes narrow. “you mean she trusts you. that’s not the same thing.” suguru doesn’t respond.

choso takes another step forward, close enough now that the smell of smoke and alcohol mixes between them. “if you don’t give a fuck about her, fine. just don’t stand here pretending you do.”

suguru finally looks up, eyes darker now. “you done?”

choso lets out a dry laugh. “mm. guess i am.”

he steps back, drops the joint into an empty cup, and turns toward the hallway, he almost bumps into you.

you’re back, smiling, oblivious, still glowing from the night. “hey, what’d i miss?”

both men go still.

suguru’s mask snaps back on instantly, smile smooth and easy. “nothing, babe. just talking band shit.” you nod, glancing between them. choso’s eyes are hard to read. too calm, too quiet. you loop your arm through suguru’s. “oh! okay. drinks?”

“yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “let’s get you one.” he leads you toward the kitchen, the two of you slipping back into the party’s pulse.

choso stays where he is, arms crossed, jaw tight. from across the room, he watches as suguru hands you a drink, laughs at something you say, leans in close like nothing happened.

and for the first time in a long time, choso feels the kind of anger that doesn’t burn out, it just settles. slow, deep, and quiet.

he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his lighter, flicks it once, twice. the flame dances for a second before he shuts it off.

he takes a breath.

then another.

the music swells again, the noise swallowing everything.

and still, all he can hear is suguru’s laugh and the echo of his own restraint cracking, one hairline fracture at a time.

.

a few hours later

choso doesn’t mean to, really.

but the tight, burning knot in his chest, the one suguru’s smirk planted there, the one that grew watching him flirt with that old girl, the one that pulsed every time he saw your smile linger on suguru instead of him. fuck, it’s unbearable.

he’s been quiet, slow, keeping that lazy, half-asleep stoner mask on, puffing on his joint like everything’s fine. but it isn’t. it never has been.

he promised. always promised. no pills, no hardcore shit. just weed. the band worried enough about him already, addiction has always been a shadow he could never quite shake, and they knew if he went deeper, it’d swallow him.

but now, standing in the pulsing warehouse light, the noise vibrating up through his shoes, the alcohol and smoke thick in the air, he’s feeling something foreign. anger. jealousy. raw heat that makes his chest ache and stomach twist.

“yo, kamo,” he hears a guy drop down next to him, some old friend from college, he's leaning in. “nice to see you man. it's been ages."

choso just nods along, letting the guy talk about whatever he thinks is so important, his ears only really peeking up when the guy says, "you look like you need somethin’ a lil stronger.”

choso looks at him, slow. “mm, like what.”

the guy holds out a small baggie. pills, little white caps. “just some party shit. everyone here's doing it."

choso stares. his promise to the band, to you, floats somewhere in the back of his head , only weed, nothing heavier.

you'd all told him how addictive he could get, how dipping his feet into any sort of hardcore drugs wouldn't turn out great for him.

he takes the bag anyway. too pissed if to give a shit about anything other than numbing what he's feeling. "yeah, alright.”

“sweet,” the guy says, handing him a drink to wash it down.

the high hit him slow at first, a gentle fog wrapping itself around his chest, legs, fingers. choso felt the kind of calm that usually made him drift through a morning on the couch, hoodie loose, blunt tucked behind his ear.

but tonight, it was different. it hit like a wave he couldn’t ride without tumbling. and the warehouse, sticky, crowded, glowing in neon and sweat, was the perfect storm for it.

he wandered through the party, each step lazy, like he was moving through molasses, yet every sense screamed sharper than usual. the bassline rattled his chest, people’s voices blurred into a constant hum, the smell of booze, perfume, and sweat mixing into a heady cloud.

he took another long drag from his joint, holding the smoke, letting it curl around him, thinking it might shield him from the gnawing coil in his stomach, but it didn’t. not really.

“hey, choso,” a familiar voice broke through the haze. a fan, a girl maybe nineteen or twenty, pressed forward with wide eyes and a camera phone. “can we… like, take a pic? i love your band, dude, you’re insane on drums..

choso blinked slowly, the effects of the drug tangling with his words. “ahh, yeah… fuckin’ yeah, for sure.” he motioned lazily to the spot, half-smile tugging at his mouth. he let the girl snap a few pictures, asked her dumb little questions, about the band, gigs, where they got the idea for that last song, and he answered, voice drawling and thick, slurring words just slightly.

every few minutes, though, his gaze flicked back to you. and every time, there you were. pressed against suguru, who had that impossible grin plastered on his face, thumb brushing your hip while making conversation with someone else. choso’s stomach twisted. you weren’t tense. you laughed at something suguru said, head tilted back, but his ja tight.

and then he noticed it. suguru’s eyes, dark and dirty, sweeping across the room, lingering on every passing girl with a flash of that smug, possessive look. choso felt something sour bloom inside him, disgust. jealousy. something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something sharp and alien.

he sucked in a long drag of his joint, letting it burn down slowly, but the warmth didn’t soothe him. the high pressed against the raw edges of his chest, amplifying the foreign heat that bubbled with every glance suguru threw.

the way his lips curved slightly at you, and yet his eyes traveld over the figure of every passer by, made choso’s fingers itch to smash something, anything.

and then it happened. a girl, tall, laughing, hair loose over her shoulders, crossed the warehouse floor, and suguru’s gaze latched onto her, heavier than he had been doing.

just like that, he leaned down slightly to you, whispered something, and before choso could register it, suguru excused himself.

"gonna step out for a bit,” he said smoothly, voice low, eyes catching choso’s once before he disappeared through the side door.

you watched him go, smiling like it was nothing. like you didn’t notice the tension he left behind.

choso’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time tonight, he felt some clarity in the chaos, the haze, the crowd, the thrum of the bass, all of it funneled into one magnetic point: you.

he made his way through the crowd, knees a little wobbly, mind thick and messy with high thoughts, each step pulling him closer to you.

when he reached you, he leaned against the wall beside the couch, blinking slowly, trying to anchor himself despite his brain telling him to just spout nonsense.

“yo,” he said, voice low, a lazy drawl that was already fraying at the edges. “hey… hey you- you look… fuck, you look like, like somethin’ really fuckin’ hot. like, goddamn, don’t even, don’t even talk, just stand there, yeah?”

you looked at him, frowning slightly. his eyes were glassy, unfocused, but they held a sharp, almost wild intensity.

“cho… did you..? what did you take?” you asked carefully, voice low, hands resting lightly on the couch back. “you’re really high right now, aren’t you?”

he blinked slowly, shaking his head, hair falling into his face. “nah… nah, it’s… just… the whole place… it’s like, fuck, it’s like the world’s spinning.”

he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to you, then back toward the doorway where suguru had disappeared. “man, I swear, every time I look… he’s lookin’… like, fuck, like he’s owning somethin’ that’s mine. not yours, mine.”

you frowned, stepping closer. “cho… slow down. breathe. you’re not making sense.”

“sense? ha!” he laughed, sharp and hoarse. “fuck sense, you’re… you’re standin’ there, and I’m… I’m, shit, I’m like, all these fuckin’ feelings,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you, voice cracking a little with the intensity.

“cho,” you said softly, moving to grab his arm, trying to steady him. “look at me. what did you take?”

he shook his head violently, sitting down on the edge of the couch, hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “nah… nah, can’t… fuck, can’t tell. you'll be mad at me. but you… you’re like… god, you’re fuckin’ everywhere in my head.”

you bit your lip, exhaling through your nose, letting a faint groan of frustration escape. “hey… listen to me. you’re too high. you’re spiraling. it’s not healthy. come on… we’re going home.”

he blinked up at you, expression softening slightly, but the haze still clouded his gaze. “home?” he muttered, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “fuck… home. yeah, yeah, you… you’re home.”

you knelt beside him, voice gentle but firm. “yeah. c’mon, we’re leaving, you're fucking soaring.”

he blinked at you, then laughed softly, a little shaky. “you… you’re fuckin’ bossy, y’know that? like… goddamn, bossy as hell… I fuckin' like it. I like it a lot.”

you shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “yeah, well, bossy is gonna save your ass tonight. now get up.” you extended a hand. he took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, gripping tightly for a moment.

as you led him through the crowd, you leaned slightly toward gojo, speaking over your shoulder. “hey, tell geto I’m leaving for the night. also tell him not to come over later.”

gojo’s grin faltered slightly, but he raised a hand in mock salute. “yeah, yeah. whatever.”

you didn’t answer, just kept walking, guiding choso toward the side door. the night air hit him like a splash, sharp and cold, clearing some of the fog from his mind. he shivered, pulling the hoodie tighter around himself, looking at you with wide, almost pleading eyes.

“fuck, it’s… it’s cold out here,” he muttered, voice rough. “but… yeah, fuck… you smell, like… everything good.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling, tugging gently on his arm. “c'mon, get in the car you big baby.”

he followed, shuffling along beside you, shoulders hunched, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. he let you guide him into the passenger seat of his sleek black mercedes, heat and regret and longing pressing together as you let go of his arm.

“yo… you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough, “I… I like you. fuckin’… like… goddamn, like really, really… yeah.”

you glanced at him, surprised, hand resting lightly on his arm. “cho… you don't know what you're saying,” you said softly, voice steady. “now let’s just get you home before you do anything stupid.”

he grinned, shaky but wide, and leaned slightly into you as you guided him along the sidewalk. “yeah… yeah, okay… home… yeah… but fuck, I swear… I swear, I’m like… all my feelings… all of ‘em… you’re fuckin’… yeah, you’re it.”

you laughed softly, shaking your head. you were starting to get really anxious. he's ever like this, never so open, never so talkative. “you're high. i don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, okay?”

~

you open the door to your apartment with a slightly more sober choso trailing behind you. normally, it was warm here, soft, your little refuge from the chaos of the outside world. tonight it was cold, unfamiliar, as if every object, the counter, the fridge, the chipped mug in the sink, was holding its breath.

choso was already inside, leaning against the kitchen bench, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.

normally, even high, he was lazy, drifting. tonight he was… heavier. darker. like every beat of his pulse carried some of the tension from the warehouse, every breath filled with something raw, sharp, desperate.

“cho?” your voice was soft, tentative, as you stepped closer. the door clicked shut behind you and the sound seemed louder than it should have been. he didn’t answer at first, just watched you, eyes glassy but unblinking, half-shadowed in the dim light.

then he moved. suddenly, decisively. one long step forward, and he was close enough that you felt the heat from him, smelled the faint mix of weed, sweat, and his cologne. before you could react, he caught your wrist and guided you toward the counter, pressing you lightly against it.

“hey,” he murmured, low, rough, voice shaking just slightly. “don’t… don’t move. just… just listen.”

you froze, pulse jumping. normally he was lazy, teasing, stoner-lazy. not like this, not intense, not… commanding in that way that made your lower stomach tighten.

“choso—” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance, his eyes flicking up to yours, desperate, pleading.

“i… i’ve been keeping something from you,” he said, voice tight. “something stupid. something i should’ve… fuck, should’ve told you about a long time ago.”

you swallowed, your heart picking up. “hmm?… what is it?”

he exhaled slowly, hands brushing against the edge of the counter near your hips, close but not overbearing, just there enough that you felt trapped in the tension he carried.

“it’s… it’s about… suguru,” he said, jaw tightening. his voice caught in his throat for a second, then he pushed through. “about all the… shit he’s said. about you, y/n.”

your stomach dropped. what the hell was he talking about? he was clearly fucked out of his mind, slurring his words as his jaw twitched. you wanted to put him to sleep, tell him to calm down, but he looked too controlling, like he'd explode if he didn't get this out.

“suguru, he… he talks about you like you’re nothing,” choso continued, hands tightening around the edge of the counter as if he needed the anchor. “like… like he’s the only one with a right to… to even fucking look at you. he… he laughed, y/n. we were at the studio, and... he said, he said such shitty things about you."

your breath caught as he leaned in closer. "l-like what?..."

"shit... he said that he likes you because you’re obedient, you're 'tight as hell', a good fuck, like you’re… like you’re just… I don’t even know, a thing for him to screw. and then—”

he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, dark eyes flicking to yours. “—then, tonight, while you were in the bathroom, doing your makeup, he went straight to his old fling, the girl he used to bang and brag about, just… just to… to prove something. he looked me dead in the eye. like he was… like he’s proud of it.”

you felt your throat tighten. your hands gripped the counter instinctively. “oh choso... i'm sorry you had to hear all of that… i—”

“no, no,” he cut you off, urgency flashing. “don’t you fucking start apologizing. don’t. you didn’t do anything. it’s all him. it’s… it’s just… i hate him. i fucking hate him, y/n.”

his voice was so hoarse, breaking a little on the last word.

the smoke curling around him made him look sharper somehow, the dim light accentuating the edges of his face, the dark lines under his eyes. you’d never seen him like this. vulnerable, angry, but also… unflinchingly honest.

“choso... he's your band mate, i know what he did to me was shitty, but don't let that ruin your relationship with him... cmon…” your voice was quiet, unsure. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to comfort him or run. your chest hurt at the honesty in his voice.

“no. i don't care, y/n... and that’s not the worst part,” he said, leaning just a little closer, hands still on the counter, gaze locked on yours.

“the worst part is… i can’t—i can’t stop thinking about it. about him touching you, talking about you, laughing at the way he’s—fuck, i don’t even know. it makes me… it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind. like my chest is… i don’t know, ripping in two.”

your lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. his usual lazy, stoner-laden grin was gone. this was… desperate. needy. almost like he couldn’t stand not saying it out loud.

he was slurring his words, looking frantic.

“and i… i want to—” he paused, swallowed, voice rough, low. “i want to tell you… that i’d never… i’d never do that. not to you. not like him. not even close. you… you’re too good, too… i don’t… fuck. you’re not like that. and i… i like you, y/n.”

the words hit harder than you expected. you’d thought he was joking before, rambling high, maybe even teasing. but this… this was different. he was standing close, breathing uneven, heart thudding in his chest, eyes pleading, and you realised, he meant it.

“choso…” you whispered. you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tight. “you… you mean that?”

“yeah,” he said, a harsh exhale of smoke escaping his lips. “i mean it. i’ve liked you for so long, and i… fuck, i just… kept it buried. kept it lazy, kept it… i don’t know, hidden. i didn’t wanna make it weird, or fuck things up. but tonight… tonight i saw everything. you with him. and i couldn’t hold it anymore.”

he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his hand lingered, trembling slightly. “you're... you're really special to me, y’know? not like… possessive or some shit. just… like… i need you. i need you to know i don’t want anyone else doing what he did. talking about you like that. looking at you like that. not ever."

you bit your lip, heart racing, conflicted. the intensity of his confession, the anger at suguru, the neediness, it was… a lot.

you didn’t know how to feel. your body was leaning slightly into him, the pull of him against you magnetic, but your mind was spinning. suguru. choso. confusion and lust and relief all knotted together.

"why are you just telling me this now...?" you ask, shyly as he inches closer, grabbing your jaw and holding it loose.

"because i'm off my fucking face, y/n."

it was sudden, and you even giggled. because he was right. sober choso, stoned choso, he'd never been this open, never this vulnerable.

"... i don't know what to say, this is all so— fuck— it's so sudden. what am i supposed to do about suguru..." you ask, he closes his eyes and responds with his forehead pressed to yours.

"if i had it my way... you'd block his ass, never speak to the mother fucker again, and spend your nights wrapped up in my bed, instead of his. letting me take care of things, keeping you close so you'd know i was yours, asking you out like a proper fucking guy. not using you like some sort of pocket pussy."

that hit. because that's all you'd ever really wanted from someone. companionship, love, the kind of respect you just didn't feel from suguru no matter how many times you'd try make yourself think you did.

he finally let go of your face and stepped back, rubbing his hands down his own thighs like he needed the grounding. “c’mon,” he muttered, voice rough, low. “bed. i… i just wanna… be near you. just… lie down, okay?”

you nodded, still unsure, heart pounding, but the pull was magnetic. his bed was just down the hall, soft, slightly messy, with a blanket he probably hadn’t folded in days.

normally he was too stoner-lazy to care about anything resembling organization, but tonight the bed felt like a sanctuary. he moved ahead of you, swaying a little, still fumbling with his hoodie, and you followed, careful not to trip over the rug in the hallway.

once inside, he lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan that was half frustration, half relief. he patted the space beside him, a small, awkward gesture but charged with meaning. “get in here,” he said, voice soft now, almost pleading. “just… be here. with me.”

you perched at the edge for a moment, looking down at him. he looked vulnerable in the way you hadn’t seen before—high and open, yet completely raw. then, slowly, you slid in beside him.

he shifted slightly, making room, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. your head rested lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heat of his skin beneath your cheek.

“fuck… you feel good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “like… like everything i’ve been waiting for, all at once. i… i don’t want to move,"

you exhaled softly, heart hammering. “i’m here,” you whispered. “i won’t go anywhere.”

he pressed his face into your hair, a quiet groan escaping him, not sexual, not demanding, just… relief. he was holding onto you like no one's business, like proximity to you was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“i… i fucked up tonight,” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “i know… i was all over the place. off my face. but… you gotta know… i meant everything i said. every word. you’re the only one i want to be… like… close to. like this.”

you shifted a little, looking up at him. the sharp, high tension in his face had softened, replaced by a mixture of haze, exhaustion, and longing. “cho… i get it,” you murmured. “you don’t have to explain anymore. just… be here.”

you let yourself sink against him, chest pressed to his, but your mind was a storm. part of you was still sharp, aching with betrayal. the thought of suguru’s words, his casual cruelty, it stung, too fresh to be jumping into anything emotionally taxing as of now.

it left a sour taste, a tight knot in your stomach. you hated that you’d ever tried to make excuses for him, that you’d tried to convince yourself his calm exterior meant anything other than manipulation.

and yet, lying here with choso, pressed close to him, his warmth and his raw honesty wrapping around you, it felt like a shield. the tension, the anger, the hurt—they softened at the edges, dulled by the simple fact that he was here. that he wasn’t pretending. he wasn’t playing games. he didn’t want to own you—he just wanted you near, wanted to take care of you in the quietest, simplest way.

your chest warmed despite the lingering anger, the betrayal still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. and yet, in this space, tangled together, pressed close in the dim glow of his bedroom, you could let yourself be content. content with the one person who’d always been honest with you, who’d finally shown you exactly how much he cared.

for now, that was all you needed.

~

the weeks had slipped past since you’d messaged geto to fuck off. you hadn’t spoken to him since that curt text, and honestly, it was quieter than you’d expected. no drama, no confrontations, just the dull ache of his absence.

the apartment felt calmer for it, too. you and choso hadn’t talked about that night, about the confession, the intensity, the things he’d admitted, but it hovered in the space between you like a low hum, unspoken but insistent.

and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm emerged. mornings were quiet, coffee mugs and peeling toast and sleepy smiles. afternoons slipped by on the couch, half-watching a show, half-dozing, your knees brushing against his.

evenings smelled like takeout and weed, music humming in the background as he sprawled lazily on the carpet, drumsticks idly tapping against his legs.

there were moments where it almost tipped, where the electricity between you made your fingers tremble and your stomach twist. a brush of hands in the kitchen, a shared laugh over something dumb on your phone, and for a heartbeat it felt like you could collapse into each other right then and there.

but choso was careful. patient. giving you space to breathe, letting the sting of geto fade, even as his gaze lingered longer than it probably should. he still wanted you close, but he held himself back, letting you set the pace. only on your own terms would he get close, letting you slip into his bed when you got lonely, letting him rub your back when things got stressful. the little things.

the band had its own tension.

practices had become sharper, more pointed, the edges of old frustrations showing. suguru’s sulking was more obvious these days, jaw tight, fingers always on his guitar strings like he was ready to snap at any moment.

he hadn’t forgiven you, or himself, for the way you’d just ended things. toji sighed more than usual, muttering about drama infecting the rhythm of the band.

gojo, predictably, had made it his life’s mission to tease both suguru and choso mercilessly. apparently, choso had spilled every detail from that night to him, and gojo’s sharp, smug grin had never left since.

“yo, cho,” gojo called during a rehearsal break, plopping onto the bass amp with a lazy flop. “have you swooped her up yet? any new updates on your little scheme to make her your play thing?"

choso’s eyes flicked up from the drumkit, one stick lazily twirling in his fingers. “shut the fuck up, gojo. that's not what i'm doing,” he said, voice flat but amused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

he was back to his usual rhythm now. easy, teasing, present, but the underlying tension in the studio hung there anyway, like the air before a storm.

suguru scowled from the corner, tuning his guitar obsessively. “idiots,” he muttered, voice sharp. “both of you.”

toji snorted. “cho’s chillin’, you're the only one sulkin' man.”

the drums hit again, slow and steady, choso’s stick tapping a rhythm into the carpeted floor.

back at the apartment, it was quieter. the city hummed outside the windows while you and choso settled into something gentle, unspoken, almost tender.

one night, he was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, and you were perched at the edge, flipping through a magazine. your hands brushed, his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary as he gazed into your eyes like a man starved, the pull was undeniable.

“choso… we shouldn't just…ignore it.” you started, heart hammering.

he cut you off with a soft hum, eyes still hidden beneath the hood. “i know. but i’m… i’m trying… letting you breathe. letting you… heal first.”

your chest tightened. “it’s… it’s still weird. still raw. geto… he—”

“fuck geto,” he interrupted softly, voice low but firm. “he’s out. he’s done. i’m… here. for you. not asking for more than you can give.”

and that was enough. the rest of the night passed in quiet, soft laughter over dumb shows, slow music, the faint drumbeat from his sticks echoing against the walls.

no confessions, no admissions, just presence and the weight of his calm, steady warmth.

practices were intense now. the band had a gig coming up, the biggest they’d ever do. every session was longer, every riff tighter, every cymbal crash deliberate.

choso’s drumming drove the rhythm, his usual lazy charisma replaced by a quiet focus, punctuated by moments of laziness where he’d just lean into the kick drum and let the beat flow through him.

and through it all, you were there with choso. kitchen chats between sessions, lounging on the couch while he absentmindedly tapped his sticks on your coffee table, brushing against your knees when you passed by.

the apartment was your sanctuary and your battlefield, tension and warmth coexisting, your bodies close but boundaries carefully observed as you'd talk about everything.

"so, will i see you at the gig?"

"duh. i'll be front row screaming your name."

god, he wishes you would scream his.

~

the venue pulsed with energy. bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.

you could feel the bass thumping through the soles of your boots before the band even came on. a low chant started somewhere in the crowd—ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize—and spread fast, a heartbeat made of strangers.

you were front and center, caught in the current of people, hands gripping the barricade. your chest was tight, a knot of nerves and excitement wound together. this was their biggest gig yet. bigger venue, bigger crowd, the kind of show that could push them up a tier.

the lights went low. a hush fell. and then gojo’s voice hit the mic, clear and cocky, dripping with that smug grin you knew even without seeing it.

“alright, alright, you sexy motherfuckers,” he drawled, drawing out every syllable. “we’re exorcize, and we came to make your night filthy.”

the crowd erupted. lights flashed red, then white, smoke rolling over the stage. suguru stepped up first with his guitar drawn low and his hair slicked back.

toji followed, head down, fingers flexing around the neck of his bass.

choso came last, sliding onto the stool behind his drumkit, sticks already spinning between his fingers. the moment he sat, everything in the room seemed to lock into rhythm.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

the set kicked off hard; gojo’s voice raw and teasing, suguru’s guitar slicing through the noise, toji’s bass thick and grounding. but choso… god, choso was something else entirely.

his body moved with the rhythm like he was the rhythm. sweat already glistened at his temples, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned into each beat. his arms flexed with every strike, the muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his tee, drumsticks flashing in the lights.

it was hypnotic. enticing. you felt it low in your stomach, that steady pulse syncing with his.

geto was there, of course. you’d spotted him near the sound booth, head low, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. the sight of him twisted something sharp in you at first, but it faded fast, burned away by the heat rising from the stage.

because when choso hit that first solo, nothing else mattered. not the press of bodies, not the alcohol hiring your tounge, and definitely not suguru geto.

he tilted his head back slightly, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hands blurred.

you’d seen him play before, countless times —but this was different. this was him, stripped down, alive. raw talent and rhythm and restraint all breaking loose in front of a crowd that screamed his name.

and you were screaming it too.

every cymbal crash sent a jolt through you. every roll of his shoulders, every flick of his wrist made your breath hitch. your fingers gripped the barricade harder as heat coiled low in your belly. you couldn’t stop watching him. didn’t want to.

gojo grinned into the mic between songs, sweat dripping down his jaw. “give it up for the best damn drummer in tokyo—my guy choso!”

the crowd roared, and you swore you saw choso’s mouth twitch into the faintest, shyest grin. his gaze swept across the crowd for a fleeting second, and when it landed on you, your stomach dropped. he saw you. he felt you.

the rest of the set blurred together, grinding guitars, crashing percussion, gojo’s voice splitting the air like lightning. when they closed out with exile mind, their heaviest song, the crowd went feral.

choso drove the final beat like he was trying to break through the floor, and when the last note hit, he threw his sticks high into the crowd. one disappeared into the sea of hands; the other bounced off the barricade and landed right in front of you.

you picked it up, clutching it tight.

the lights faded. the crowd’s roar slowly dissolved into chatter and laughter, the sound of the night spilling back into the open air. the band vanished backstage, swallowed by cables.

you slipped through the press of bodies, heart still pounding, the drumstick warm in your hand. a couple of drinks from the merch table had loosened your nerves, and you could feel a confident heat rolling low in your belly, pressing against the restraint you’d been holding onto all night.

when you found him outside—behind the venue, near the alley where the smoke from the back door curled upward—he was leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, head tipped back, still catching his breath.

“you were…” your voice caught, breath slightly slurred and warm from the drinks, “holy shit, choso, you were incredible.”

his lips quirked, soft and tired. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, deliberately letting your hand linger a second longer on his chest. “i couldn’t look away. like… i don’t even have words. you sounded—” you lowered your voice, letting the warmth of the drinks give you boldness, “you sounded so good. so fucking good.”

his gaze flicked to yours, something dark and quiet sparking in it. the pull between you was immediate, electric, and you let your fingers brush his hoodie again, teasing, deliberate.

“you think so?” he asked softly, voice rougher, more ragged than usual.

you nodded, stepping closer until your body nearly pressed against his. “yeah. you made me feel it. every beat.” your lips curved into a half-smile, half-grin, letting the alcohol fuel a boldness you usually didn’t give yourself.

after weeks of pretending like there was nothing going on between you, this was definitely the breaking point.

"i couldn’t stop thinking about you, how i'm so lucky to have such a talented friend.”

he swallowed, shoulders rising, that lazy grin cracking just slightly as he stepped a fraction closer.

for a second, the air felt so thick you could barely breathe.

the back door swung open then, and gojo’s voice cut through the air.

“yo, you two!” he shouted, grinning under the streetlights. “afterparty at mine. everyone’s invited. you better show up, cho—you owe me a joint and a round of beer for that call out, man.”

choso didn’t even glance back. his gaze stayed on you, dark and intense.

you tilted your head, voice soft but teasing, letting the boldness roll over your words. “maybe skip it,” you said, hand still lightly resting against his chest. “the last afterparty didn’t go so well for you, remember?”

his laugh was low, slightly hungry, genuine. “yeah,” he murmured. “fair point.”

“come home,” you said, your body brushing against his side as you spoke, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “come home. with me.”

he hesitated a heartbeat, then exhaled, eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah. home sounds really good.”

.

as soon as the door clicked shut, the air between you ignited. his hand found the small of your back before you could even react, pulling you flush against him. your body pressed to his chest, heart hammering, pulse racing, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“fuck,” he breathed, forehead leaning to yours, voice low and rough, vibrating in your chest. “i can't take this anymore. i can't keep ignoring this.”

you swallowed, breath hitching, hands braced against his shoulders. “cho—”

he cut you off with a growl, lips brushing against your jaw as his hands slid down to grip your hips firmly, anchoring you to him. “no. fuck that. i mean it. i… i’ve been holding back everything. every word, every look, every feeling.”

your stomach fluttered, heat pooling between your thighs, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down your spine. he tilted your chin up, eyes dark, heavy with desire and something softer, something raw and unguarded. “i can’t… can’t stand it anymore, y/n. that night, everything i said… everything i’ve wanted… i need you so badly.”

“choso…” your voice was breathless, half warning, half pleading, but your body betrayed you, leaning in closer, the tension unbearable.

he laughed, low, rough, almost a growl. “jesus, look at you. you're so fucking beautiful… i want you all to myself, all of the time. i don't know how i control myself most of the time, y/n.” his hands roamed lower, teasing the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft line of your hips.

“i need you. i’ve wanted you… every lazy, fucking long day i’ve spent here in your vicinity, it's like i can't breathe properly without you.”

your chest tightened, mind spinning, everything he’d said that night pooling back into focus—his confession, the anger at suguru, the raw truth. you’d thought it was a high, a ramble, but now… seeing him, feeling him, you knew it was real.

“ i—” you started, voice trembling, then cut yourself off as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours.

the kiss hit first soft, lips delicately meeting for the first time, then it grew demanding. a low growl vibrating from his chest, hands gripping your hips tighter, rolling you against him like it was the only natural motion in the universe.

you gasped, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, feeling the press of his hardness against you, the undeniable weight of him. your body arched instinctively, pressed to his, heart hammering, chest rising and falling in sync.

“tell me,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, low. “tell me you want me… all of this… me.”

your eyes fluttered open, heart in your throat, and you met his gaze. you looked him up and down and pulled him in tight, letting your lips do the talking.

"does that answer your question?"

he groaned, a sharp, feral sound that made your stomach clench, and pressed harder, pinning you against the door like it was his god-given right. “good,” he breathed, tilting his head as his lips sought yours again, slower now, tasting, teasing, claiming. “i need to… i need to ask, too.”

“ask?” you whispered, breathless.

he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. “be… mine, y/n. completely. no games, no half-assed shit. i want you. all of you.”

your chest tightened, eyes swimming with heat, desire, and relief. “yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, letting everything spill out.

that was all he needed. his grin cracked wide, teeth grazing your lips, and he dove back into your mouth, hands wandering over every inch he could reach, lips and tongue claiming, teeth grazing just enough to draw gasps from you.

you pressed into him, hands clawing at his back, hips grinding, the friction of his body against yours setting you alight. each kiss was sharper, heavier, demanding, full of need and want and something that had been simmering for years.

he backed you into the hallway, every step making the tension coil tighter, until finally he spun you gently, but with no less force, toward the bedroom. the air was thick, your breaths ragged, hands clutching at each other’s clothing, trying to close the distance you both had held back for too long.

“god, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you shivered violently. “i’ve needed this… wanted you… for so long.”

you couldn’t hold back anymore. “me too, cho. so badly.”

he groaned, a deep, rough sound vibrating through your chest, hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer as you crossed the threshold into the bedroom. the door shut behind you with a definitive click, muffling the city outside, leaving only the sound of your hearts, your breaths, and the magnetic pull between your bodies.

and then… he kissed you again, slow and searing, full of hunger and want and heat, pressing you onto the bed as your legs tangled together, bodies seeking, finding, consuming.

he’s all teeth and tongue, biting, sucking, nipping at your neck, shoulder, jaw, dragging low, urgent groans from deep in his chest that make you ache and melt at the same time.

your nails rake down his back, pulling him closer, and he leans in, grinding, pressing, heat and hunger radiating from him in waves that make your knees weak.

“fuck, choso—” you gasp, but he swats your hands away gently, lips still devouring yours, teeth grazing, tongue probing, tugging, tasting.

every touch, every snap of his hips as he grinds his clothed cock against you, makes your clit pulse with anticipation.

his fingers slip under your shirt, pressing and pinching at your hardened nipples, trailing down your sides slowly, dragging heat across your skin.

your hands clutch at him, tugging his hoodie off of his body, anything to get more of him, more contact, more friction. he responds with a low, guttural growl, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips snapping hard, testing, teasing, driving you insane with want as he tears off his shirt.

you catch a glimpse of the body you'd see on the daily, a perfect chiseled masterpiece, only this time, it was all yours.

he doesn’t just kiss you, he devours you. hands roaming over your pretty body, he slips your skirt off next, and slides his big, veiny hand down, down, until the thick pads of his fingers tease and prod at your wet bundle of nerves. you hiss in reply.

"fuck! choso— that feels— so good!"

he smirks at your confession and slowly pushes his thick digits inside, scissoring them back and forth, driving you up the wall as you let out pretty, breathless moans.

"ch-choso!"

his mouth drifts lower, teasing the swell of your breasts, biting just enough to make you arch and cry out.

after working you open, he kisses your lips tenderly before pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. his rock hard cock springs free, and, wow. just wow.

"th-that's not gonna fit..."

"we'll make it fit, baby."

and fit it did. he slowly pushed his fat tip past your puffy lips, whispering reassuring praise as you squeezed your eyes shut from the streeeetch.

"aww— you can do it, ma. you're doing so good for me. that's it, just keep breathing baby."

his hips jerked forward, letting the last few inches fully stretch you out, earning a porn star worthy moan rip from your throat.

"holy fuck— holly shit! choso, you're so big!"

he groaned in satisfaction, your cunt swallowing him whole as he slapped his hips back and forth over and over again, cursing and moaning deeply into your ear.

his pace turns brutal, like all of his emotions were being poured into fucking you nice and deep, the way you deserved.

he dips his face down impossibly close to your face to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. he smirks against your skin, letting lewd comments tumble out of his smirking lips.

"you moan so prettily for me baby— shit— nothing— hah— gets me harder than hearing you whine like a slut while i fuck you fast."

you arch, grinding against him without thinking, letting the friction and his raw heat take over, body trembling beneath him. he groans into your neck, claws digging into your thighs, holding you open, guiding, punishing, claiming.

he’s insatiable. every roll of his hips, every snap, every deep press of him against you makes your body combust, trembling, gasping, aching for more. your moans, ragged and loud, fuel him, and he leans in, tongue and teeth and lips all at once, relentless, like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.

you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything but ride the fire, hips rolling into him, chest pressing into his, skin slick and shivering. he drives you higher, deeper, grinding with unrelenting intensity, low growls vibrating through his chest, vibrating through you.

"fuck! baby— gonna cum— gonna fill y' up, shit!"

you locked your legs around his torso as his thrusts become more and more feverish, the sheer pace making your face squeeze tight in ecstasy.

he's breathing heavy, holding your hips against him so hard you're sure his hands will leave bruises, your cunt being relentlessly pounded as he finally lets go.

"fuck— y/n! fuck i love you, i love you so much!"

you gasp at his words and blurt out a response like it was muscle memory, like it was the most perfect irrevocable truth.

"i love you too, choso— hah!—,"

when he finally drives the both of you over the edge, it’s explosive. he pants and collapses immediately, groaning into your chest as he caresses your hair, speaking soft praise into your ear.

"god, that was so good. you did so well f'me... holy shit, y/n. you're so perfect, so good... you took me like a fucking champ."

you were too busy coming down to fully comprehend, but you cradled his head against your chest all the same.

he doesn’t pull away. just holds you, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your forehead, arms tight around you, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling, pulse still wild. the tension hasn’t left, it’s just simmering now, a coiled heat between you two that promises this is only the beginning.

you’re still gasping, shivering, trembling in the aftermath, but it’s… thrilling, dark, messy, and perfect. he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once more, teeth grazing, murmuring something low and rough that makes your stomach knot again.

"i love you, y/n. you're mine. i don't fuck and dip, this is a forever thing now, okay? i promise, i'm never letting you get away from me."

the world outside is gone. it’s just the two of you, tangled, fevered, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.

you reply through breathless speech, looking deep into his beautiful, tired eyes.

"i know, cho. and that's all i've ever really needed."

© 2025 sixxels. All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

~

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows,

he knows.

~

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

~

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like, cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look real hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re a fucking bombshell.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying shit like that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he would fuck him if he was gay.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “the girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “mmm. party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i miss your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week, tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then,

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, never on the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, quieter than the first time, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“fairs,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late in the afternoon.

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. you always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh, so ur stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums, low.

'not buying it.'

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute, that's it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting, he’s circling, you don’t see it?”

you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer, but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too.

“how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you say anything?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes tatted on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.” your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of that party. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like ive already lost you, and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long, you've needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks. slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, sweetheart… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

raging music throbs and the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?”

you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is, he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

© 2025 sixxels. All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 m.list

satoru’s hair is white-blond and soft-looking even now, even in sleep. his lips are parted just slightly. his breath smells like spearmint and sugar. he has glitter on his cheekbone. you don’t know if it’s yours or his.

behind you—sukuna. you can tell without turning. you can feel him. his fingers are curled just under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your stomach like he owns the right to be there. one of his rings digs gently into your skin every time he breathes. and you don’t move. not yet.

you’re not wearing pants. or a bra. or—god. you don’t even want to check.

your glasses are nowhere to be found. your thighs are sticky. the room smells like sweat and cologne. and the longer you lie there, the more your brain starts to fill in the blanks. flashes. laughing. lights. someone’s hands on your waist. someone else’s mouth on your chest. sukuna’s voice in your ear, “you’re taking us so well, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply. satoru stirs. the arm around your waist tightens. “you good?” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.

you don’t answer right away. your pulse is going insane. your phone is dead. your mouth is dry. and you’re lying in the bed of two boys you’ve never said more than five words to—at least not before last night.

last night.

shit.

what the hell happened last friday night?

twenty-four hours earlier, you didn’t even want to go.

you were in your room, hoodie on, glasses slipping down your nose, halfway through a 20-minute video essay you didn’t even care about when nobara kicked your door open. she didn’t knock. she never knocks. just marched in, grabbed the remote, and said, “we’re going out.”

you blinked at her. “out where?”

“party,” she said, digging through your closet like she lived there. “frat house. you’re overdue for a bad decision.”

you laughed like she was joking. she, in fact, wasn’t.

somehow you ended up in the passenger seat of her car twenty minutes later wearing a skirt you didn’t know you owned and a shirt that didn’t fully cover your bra straps. your lip gloss felt too shiny. your shoes felt too loud. and your heart wouldn’t stop trying to escape your ribcage.

you’ve been to maybe three parties since college started. all of them sucked. you usually end up nursing one drink in the corner and sneaking out before midnight. but nobara had a hand on your back the whole walk up the driveway, her voice in your ear—“just have fun, babe. don’t overthink it. be hot and nonchalant and mysterious or whatever.”

you weren’t mysterious. you were anxious. the music was too loud, the lights were too red, and everything smelled like beer and expensive body spray. you were trying to find the kitchen when you saw them.

satoru first. standing on the couch, red solo cup raised like a toast, yelling something stupid while everyone around him cheered. white shirt, chain around his neck, laugh echoing off the ceiling. he looked like he was born to be worshipped. too pretty to exist. too loud to ignore.

then sukuna—leaning against the wall, drink in hand, tattoos half-covered by a hoodie he clearly didn’t care about. not smiling. not yelling. just watching. sharp eyes scanning the room like he was already bored of everyone in it. except you.

because when you walked in—he looked straight at you. didn’t blink. didn’t look away. just tipped his chin up like he’d been waiting for you to show.

you broke eye contact first. obviously.

you tried to disappear into the crowd after that. pushed your way to the drinks table. grabbed something pink and half-melted and sweet enough to taste like nothing. you were gonna sip it and then sneak home, like always. but then someone tapped your shoulder.

you turned.

satoru. he was smiling. full force. bright as a fucking floodlight.

“hey,” he said, tipping his cup toward you. “you’re in my bio class, right?”

you nodded. he grinned wider.

“i knew i recognized those glasses.”

you blink up at him. “what?”

satoru grins like you’re the punchline of a joke he hasn’t told yet. he’s a little too close, too confident. he’s taller than you remember. shinier. and definitely not drunk—not yet.

“bio 102,” he says. “you sit three rows behind me. glasses. purple highlighter. you take notes like it's a race.”

you blink again.

“you looked up once,” he adds, “when i dropped my pen. you didn’t hand it back.”

“you didn’t ask,” you mumble.

he laughs, head tipping back like you’re the funniest thing in the room. “fuuck, you’re cute.”

you try to step around him. you really do. but his hand comes out casually, just two fingers on your wrist, not even tight—barely there. “don’t go. i was gonna ask if you wanted a drink.”

you hold up your half-finished cup.

he eyes it. “that’s not a real drink.”

“it’s pink.” (we all know what happens w satoru and the pink juice wink wink)

“exactly,” he says, like that proves his point.

you should walk away. you should say you’re here with someone, that you’re leaving soon, that you’re not good with crowds, whatever. instead, you let him guide you toward the kitchen. he doesn’t touch you again, but he keeps looking back—like he expects you to bolt.

you don’t.

he pours something clear and probably vomit-inducing into a new cup. hands it to you. nudges the rim toward your lips like he’s feeding you. you take a sip just to make him stop looking at you like that.

and that’s when you feel it. another presence.

he doesn’t speak. just moves in behind you.

you look up. it's ryomen sukuna.

you know him. everyone knows him. he doesn’t go to class but always shows up on the group project grade. he’s the one with the face tattoo, way too many facial piercings, the pinky ring, the reputation. he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t try. he doesn’t need to.

he looks at you. not up and down—at you.

your stomach flips.

“you’re staring,” satoru says to him, grinning.

“she’s staring first,” sukuna says.

you flush.

“am not,” you murmur, mostly to your drink.

sukuna takes a sip of whatever’s in his cup. something darker. leans against the counter beside satoru like he’s always been there. doesn’t say anything else for a while, just listens as satoru keeps talking—to you, about you, near you. teasing, charming, stupid little jokes about class and how you’re “the girl who never makes eye contact but always knows the answers.”

you’re so busy trying to keep up with satoru that you almost don’t notice the way sukuna keeps watching. like he’s figuring something out.

you shift under the weight of it.

satoru notices. “you good?”

you nod.

he leans in, voice dropping like he’s letting you in on a secret. “we’re just fucking with you. you don’t have to look like we’re gonna eat you.”

you laugh, weak. “that’s not what i thought.”

but sukuna tilts his head. smirks.

“isn’t it?”

you tell yourself you’re only staying for one more drink.

but satoru hands you another cup—something golden and bubbly this time, and he makes a dumb comment about the ratio of soda to liquor like it’s a science experiment. you laugh. actually laugh. and he looks so pleased with himself you forget to be anxious for a second.

sukuna doesn’t talk much. doesn’t try to charm you. but he’s still there, sipping slow from the same cup like he’s not even trying to catch a buzz, just waiting. he leans on the counter beside you like he’s carved into it. every time someone passes by, he shifts subtly—not enough to be obvious, but enough that they don’t brush you. he doesn’t say anything about it. doesn’t say much at all. just watches you sip your drink like he’s waiting for your lips to slip on the rim.

twenty minutes pass. maybe more. you’re warm now. fuzzy at the edges. everything’s a little funnier. you say something dumb—some offhand comment about how guys like them don’t talk to girls like you—and immediately want to sink into the floor. but satoru just throws his head back and laughs like you told a great joke.

“what kind of guys are we, then?” he asks, grinning. “be specific.”

you open your mouth. close it. shrug.

he leans in, voice lower now, almost smug. “you think we’re hot.”

“i never said that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

before satoru can say anything else, comes a voice entering the kitchen you barely recognize.

“there you fuckers are.”

toji.

black tee, smug expression, red solo cup in hand and probably half a blunt tucked behind his ear. he doesn’t look tired or drunk or like he’s been searching for anyone. he looks entertained. like walking in on this exact moment was the highlight of his night.

“we’re doing spin the bottle,” he says. “living room. you’re playing. bring your little friend.”

you blink. “i—what?”

“you,” he nods at you like this is obvious. “with the glasses. you’re cute. come on.”

“she doesn’t have to play if she doesn’t want to,” satoru says, casually. easy smile, one hand thrown over the back of the couch like he’s just stretching.

“she’ll play,” sukuna says. and when you turn to look at him, he’s already standing.

you should say no. should stay in the kitchen and pretend you didn’t hear. but your legs are moving before you finish the thought. satoru’s already guiding you to your feet with a light touch to your waist, and toji’s halfway out the door like he knows you’ll follow.

maybe it’s the drinks. maybe it’s the way both of them look at you like you’re something shiny and new. maybe it’s the fact that your brain is no longer fully in charge of your body.

you follow.

the circle is already half-formed when you sit down—knees brushing satoru’s, shoulders tense, your cup refilled without you realizing it. the living room’s dim except for the kitchen light bleeding in and the warm orange glow from a string of fake neon signs. someone’s playing music low through a speaker, but most of the sound comes from the people—laughing, yelling, groaning dramatically at the dares.

you try to sit small, like you don’t want to take up space, but satoru flops next to you, legs spread, knee touching yours like he’s done it a hundred times. sukuna’s across the circle. still. watching. he hasn’t looked away from you since you sat down. his hand rests on his knee, thumb tapping the rim of his cup, slow. deliberate.

the bottle spins.

someone gets dared to take their shirt off. someone else gets dared to suck a shot of whipped cream off the nearest neck. the energy is climbing. looser. heavier. your skin feels too hot, your drink too sweet. you’re about to excuse yourself—bathroom or air or anything—when the bottle stops.

and it’s pointing at you.

toji grins like he’s been waiting for this all night.

“truth or dare, sweetheart?”

you freeze. you want to say truth. you should say truth. but then your eyes flick to sukuna—silent, sprawled out, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knows what you’re going to pick.

“dare,” you say, so quietly it barely counts.

toji doesn’t even hesitate. “make out with sukuna. thirty seconds.”

you swear your soul leaves your body. the room erupts—oohs and groans and someone already pulling out their phone to record, probably. you sit frozen, wide-eyed, heart hammering so hard it makes your palms go numb. you open your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to run—but then sukuna’s voice cuts through it all.

“you heard him,” he says, lazy and low, legs spread wide. “c’mere.”

you could say no. no one’s forcing you. the game’s stupid. you’re drunk. you don’t owe anyone anything.

but he’s looking at you like he already knows you won’t say it. like he knows your thighs are clenching just from the idea of putting your mouth on his.

and he’s right.

you crawl toward him slow, cheeks on fire, limbs not entirely steady. he doesn’t move to meet you—just watches, dark eyes hooded, waiting until you’re kneeling between his legs. someone says “time it,” and someone else shouts “go,” and then—

his hands come up to cup your face. and he kisses you.

not quite soft. not careful. but not rough either—just firm. he licks into your mouth without hesitation, like it’s his, like he’s doing you a favor letting you taste him in front of everyone. his thumb strokes your cheek as his tongue slides against yours. your head spins.

you forget about the circle. forget about the rules. the sounds. the countdown. all of it.

you melt into him like it’s instinct.

he kisses like he knows how sensitive your mouth is. like he’s testing it. like he’s trying to figure out how you’d sound with his fingers inside you, his cock rubbing slow against your soaked panties.

when his teeth catch your bottom lip, you whimper.

his thumb presses under your chin. “thirty seconds,” someone says, breathless.

he doesn’t stop right away. just drags it out one more second—one last filthy kiss, spit-slick and hot—before pulling back and wiping your lip with his thumb like he owns you now.

you’re still kneeling. still trying to catch your breath.

he looks down at you, half-lidded and smug. “better than your little library fantasies?”

you don’t answer. your thighs are shaking.

you crawl back to your seat like your legs don’t fully work, face on fire, mouth tingling. you don’t even register that satoru’s hand is already on your leg again until it squeezes.

“how you feeling, baby genius?” he whispers, leaning in close, voice brushing the shell of your ear.

you can’t think. can’t breathe.

and you haven’t even gotten to his turn yet.

you’re still trying to collect yourself when the bottle spins again.

you’re not even paying attention this time—your lips are swollen, your pulse is all over the place, and sukuna’s looking at you like he could eat you alive and wouldn’t even need a drink after. you barely register the laughter until you hear someone say it:

“satoru. skinny dip. fountain out front.”

you blink.

satoru grins like they just handed him the crown. “that’s it?”

“naked,” toji adds, lazy. “no boxers. no sneaky shit.”

“in and out,” someone else chimes. “minimum fifteen seconds.”

“you guys are so unoriginal,” satoru sighs dramatically, already standing up and peeling his shirt over his head. “and jealous.”

your brain short-circuits.

his shirt hits the floor and you immediately look away. not fast enough. his torso is unfair—clean cut, gleaming just slightly under the lights like the universe put a filter on him. someone whistles. someone else yells, “show us the dick, satoru!” and he just blows them a kiss.

“you coming?” he says, suddenly looking straight at you.

you freeze. “what?”

his smirk is a little mean. “to watch.”

the group erupts again.

your mouth opens. no sound comes out.

“she’s already wet,” sukuna mutters, loud enough for just you to hear.

you slap his arm. he doesn’t flinch. just grins into his drink.

before you can even decide what you’re doing, you’re on your feet, following satoru and half the party outside. the night air hits you like a wall—cool, loud, full of moths and porchlight and the smell of someone grilling hot dogs at midnight.

the fountain isn’t big. it’s barely a fountain. just a decorative pool of water with a little statue of a cupid pissing into it. but satoru treats it like a fucking stage. he kicks his shoes off dramatically, tosses his pants at someone filming, and then—without hesitation, drops his boxers.

someone shrieks. you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.

he’s so casual about it. like he does this every weekend. he’s smirking, fully naked, body stupidly perfect, and doesn’t even cover himself as he steps into the fountain and sinks down with a splash. water flies everywhere. someone cheers.

he doesn’t look away from you the whole time.

fifteen seconds pass. no one’s counting. he’s reclining, arms up on the stone rim, hair wet, abs glinting. like he’s posing.

he points at you.

“you’re next, baby genius.”

you nearly collapse.

you’re still standing there like your feet forgot how to work when someone yells it.

“nah, nah—she has to get in too.”

the crowd goes feral immediately. laughter, clapping, someone chanting your name even though you’re pretty sure they don’t actually know it. you feel your stomach drop straight through the concrete.

you shake your head. “i—no, i don’t—”

“c’mon,” satoru says, still lounging in the fountain like he belongs there. water dripping from his hair, eyes bright, grin lazy and dangerous. “you already came all the way out here. don’t leave me alone.”

“that’s not fair,” you say weakly.

toji laughs. “spin the bottle rules. dare’s a dare.”

you look back toward the house. then at the fountain. then at sukuna, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken—just watching you with that same heavy look, arms crossed, like he already knows how this ends.

he tilts his head and shrugs. “you don’t have to.”

your heart stutters. because he says it like he means it.

but then satoru reaches out, palm resting on the stone edge of the fountain, fingers spread. open. inviting. “only if you want to,” he adds, quieter now. “no pressure.”

everyone’s watching. waiting.

your cheeks burn. your chest feels tight. and you realize—disturbingly—that part of you wants it. wants to do the stupid thing. wants to feel reckless and hot and seen for once.

you kick off your shoes.

the cheering explodes again.

you don’t strip. you don’t have to. you step in with your clothes, heart racing, water cold as hell around your ankles, then your calves, then your thighs. you gasp involuntarily and satoru laughs.

“easy,” he says, shifting closer. “i got you.”

you wade in until you’re crouched between his knees, water lapping at your hips, the already tight skirt you came in, clinging uncomfortably. he’s still looking at you like that—like you’re the best part of the dare.

someone starts counting. ten seconds. fifteen. you lose track.

the night feels unreal. the water. the noise. the way sukuna’s gaze doesn’t leave you for a second. the way satoru leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“it’s kinda cold,” you lie.

he smiles. “sure.”

when the time’s up, no one says anything. no one tells you to get out. the crowd starts thinning. the attention fades. people wander inside. someone yells about shots in the kitchen. music shifts.

you’re still in the water when sukuna walks all the way out, alone now, hoodie gone, sleeves pushed up. he raises an eyebrow at the sight of you sitting in satoru’s lap like it’s normal now. like you’re not freezing and soaked and overwhelmed.

“you gonna stay out here all night?” he says, lighting a blunt with one hand.

you should say no. should get up. dry off. call a ride.

instead you look at satoru.

“my room’s closer than hers,” he says to sukuna, totally calm.

sukuna doesn’t respond. just turns, heads back inside.

and you follow. no one tells you to. you just go.

you trail dripping footprints through the hallway. past the living room. up the stairs. the music downstairs fades into something quieter.

satoru opens the door to a room that smells like laundry and cologne and something sweet—like vanilla or body lotion or both. sukuna’s already there, leaning on the dresser like he never left. he watches you walk in. watches you shiver.

you don’t know who shuts the door behind you.

but it clicks shut.

satoru’s still shirtless from the dare, only a towel wrapped around his hips. his chest glows in the warm lamplight, damp and flushed. his hair sticks to his forehead. he looks at you like he’s still in the fountain. still waiting for you to come closer.

but it’s sukuna who moves first.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smirk. just pushes off the dresser slow, and walks toward you like he’s already seen the ending. he stops when there’s maybe a foot between you—maybe less. his eyes drop to your chest.

your shirt is soaked. you forgot. or maybe you didn’t.

the fabric sticks to your skin like a second layer. completely see-through now. your bra’s thin and pale pink and practically invisible under the water. you cross your arms over your chest without thinking.

sukuna’s eyes flick back to yours.

“don’t,” he says, low.

you freeze.

he reaches out, slow, and curls his fingers around your wrist—gentle. not forcing anything.

satoru’s behind you now. close enough to feel. he doesn’t touch you yet. just speaks, soft and teasing at your shoulder. “you’re freezing, baby. let’s get this off, yeah?”

your throat’s dry. you nod once.

sukuna lifts the hem of your shirt.

he moves slowly. peels it up, over your hips, your stomach, your ribs. the wet fabric clings, heavy, dragging across your skin like it doesn’t want to let go. your breath stutters when it passes over your chest. you feel satoru’s hand come up to help—fingertips brushing the small of your back as he eases the fabric over your head.

you’re standing in nothing but your soaked skirt and a nearly transparent bra.

you feel stripped. exposed. and somehow, still completely safe.

neither of them say anything.

sukuna drops the shirt behind him without looking. his hand stays on your waist.

“you’re shivering,” he murmurs.

“get her a towel,” he says to satoru without looking away from you.

satoru grins. “gonna warm her up yourself?”

“maybe.”

he disappears into the bathroom, and you’re left alone with sukuna in the silence. your breathing’s too loud. his hand is still on your bare waist, thumb brushing the damp curve of your skin. your eyes flick up to his mouth. he notices.

“tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice low, eyes unreadable.

you don’t.

he doesn’t rush.

his hand is still on your waist, steady, thumb brushing in lazy strokes like he’s feeling out your heartbeat. your skin’s still damp. cold in places. your bra clings to you like an afterthought. his eyes drag down your chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, and back up to your face like he’s debating how far he wants to take this—or how long he wants to make you wait.

you can’t look away.

he leans in slow.

your breath catches. your lips part. it’s instinct—your body tipping into his before your mind can catch up. your fingers twitch at your sides. your knees feel useless.

he doesn’t kiss you right away.

he hovers.

so close you can feel the heat of his breath. the scent of his skin—smoke and soap. his hand slides up, fingers curling around the side of your neck, his thumb settling just beneath your jaw.

“you gonna let me in, baby?” he murmurs, so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you.

you nod. maybe. you think you do. you don't even know if you say it out loud.

but he hears you. he closes the distance.

his mouth presses to yours slow—lips warm, soft at first, patient. he lets it sink in, lets you feel every part of it. the weight. the heat. the way his thumb strokes your cheek just once, like you’re something precious and breakable.

then he tilts his head, kisses you again—deeper. hungrier. his tongue brushes yours, and your hands catch in the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor.

you make a sound into his mouth—small. desperate.

he groans low in his chest and pulls you closer by the waist, bare skin sliding against his palm, damp and warm and perfect.

you don’t even notice satoru coming back until you hear his voice, from behind you: “you guys started without me?”

you break the kiss, dizzy, flushed.

sukuna doesn’t look away from you. “we were waiting,” he says.

satoru’s already grinning.

his hair’s damp. he’s holding the towel, half-forgotten, like he only came back to see the look on your face—lips kiss-bitten, pupils wide, sukuna’s hand still wrapped firm around your waist like he hasn’t decided to let go yet.

satoru steps closer. “cute,” he says, almost to himself.

he drops the towel onto the bed and leans in, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward him with just enough pressure to make you shiver.

“can i kiss you too?” he asks, like you’re not already leaning into it. like you didn’t just gasp into sukuna’s mouth thirty seconds ago like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

you nod. shaky.

his smile softens. “good girl.”

he kisses you slower.

softer, sweeter—lips warm and plush and gentle like he’s trying to erase every thought from your head that isn’t him. his other hand ghosts over your hip, barely touching, like he’s seeing how little he has to do to make you tremble.

and god, you do.

he licks into your mouth like he has forever. groans when you arch closer without meaning to. mutters “fuck, you’re already so responsive” against your lips like it’s the best part of his night.

behind you, sukuna’s hand slips lower.

settles heavy on your hip, fingers dragging slow across the waistband of your soaked skirt before slipping it down your legs. you gasp into satoru’s mouth again. he smiles against you.

his hand moves lower too.

over your stomach. brushing the edge of your bra. not quite touching, not yet—but he’s watching your eyes flicker, your chest rise, your mouth part again like you’re already begging.

you don’t say stop. you say nothing.

you don’t remember how you got to the bed. you just remember hands.

satoru’s fingers brushing the back of your thigh. sukuna’s palm steady between your shoulder blades. the way the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were down—spine meeting the sheets, breath catching in your throat like you weren’t ready, even though you were already so far gone.

satoru leans over you first. he kisses you again—deeper now. not slow. not teasing. his mouth is open and wet and needy, tongue sliding against yours with this kind of hungry sweetness that makes your head spin. he kisses you like he missed you. like this is what he’s been waiting for all night. like he’s already thinking about how you’ll sound when you fall apart.

his hand cups your cheek, cradles your jaw, thumbs at your lip when he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice low and thick.

you nod. can’t speak.

you feel sukuna behind him. feel the mattress shift at your side, his fingers brushing your leg.

his hand slides up the inside of your thigh, knuckles grazing your damp skin as he drags them toward your soaked panties. satoru kisses you again, just as sukuna’s fingers press against the thin fabric.

you jolt.

satoru swallows the sound.

sukuna groans right by your ear. “fuck,” he mutters, like it hurts him. “she’s soaked.”

you are. humiliatingly so. your panties cling to your cunt, useless. your hips twitch, breath shaking, and your fingers curl in the sheets before you can stop them.

sukuna rubs over the fabric once. slow.

satoru breaks the kiss to look down at your face.

“pretty girl,” he breathes, smiling. “so sensitive.”

you whimper.

you’re still kinda clothed, and yet somehow, you feel like you’re already bare. your bra clings to you, still wet. your panties stick between your legs. your thighs keep tensing on instinct, but sukuna just spreads them further with one hand, keeps his other on your pussy like it belongs there.

and then he says it.

“you ever been touched like this before?”

your whole body goes still. you can barely shake your head.

satoru’s smile goes soft. sukuna’s grip tightens.

“yeah,” sukuna says, voice low and firm. “i didn’t think so.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking until satoru kisses your throat.

he’s smiling against your skin, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his lips trail down to your collarbone, wet and open-mouthed, then lower, over the curve of your bra where your nipples are already peeking through the damp fabric.

he groans against you. “fuck, baby,” he murmurs, teeth grazing lightly. “you’re begging and i haven’t even touched your pretty tits yet.”

you’re not begging. not out loud. but your hips twitch with every breath. your fingers keep curling in the sheets like they’re trying to anchor you to something. and sukuna—god—sukuna’s still between your legs, eyes fixed on the way your cunt throbs through the soaked cotton like it’s a problem only he gets to solve.

his fingers hook the side of your panties. tug slow. not off. just aside.

you gasp—sharp, high. the cool air hits your pussy before he even touches you, and it’s almost too much. your thighs close on instinct.

his hand pushes them open again.

“keep ‘em spread,” he says, quiet but commanding. “you wanna be good, don’t you?”

you nod.

satoru’s already mouthing over your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the fabric, lips wet, humming like he’s so proud of you for being this worked up. then he tugs the cup down with one hand, exposes your breast fully, and sucks.

you cry out. can’t help it.

and that’s when sukuna slides two fingers through your folds. not in. not yet. just a drag, collecting your slick and groaning under his breath.

“fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, thumb pressing just under your clit. “you ever been this wet for anyone before?”

your head shakes. your voice breaks.

satoru kisses the top of your breast, breathless with a grin. “course she hasn’t. nobody’s ever touched her right.”

“they will now,” sukuna mutters, and then—he circles your clit with two fingers.

your back arches. your hips jerk. your mouth opens, no sound coming out. satoru keeps sucking gently on your tit, fingers curling under the other one, pinching, playing, lips dragging sweet over sensitive skin.

“you like that, sweetheart?” sukuna murmurs, pressing a little harder, teasing little circles that make your thighs tremble. “gonna let me make you cum just like this?”

you nod. voice gone. breath gone.

satoru kisses up your chest, back to your mouth, and laughs softly against your lips when you moan. “so responsive,” he breathes. “you gonna fall apart already, baby? you’re shaking so much.”

sukuna doesn’t warn you. he doesn’t have to.

his fingers are already slick with you, slow circles on your clit turning into something needier, something that makes your toes curl and your breath catch in your throat. he leans in closer, body crowding between your knees like he’s settling in for a meal, and his voice drops lower.

“breathe,” he murmurs, “gonna slip in nice and slow, alright?”

you nod. it’s instinct. desperate. like your body already knows this is happening and just wants to make it easier for you.

his middle finger pushes in first, deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. your walls clench around him immediately, like your body can’t tell if it wants more or less, and you gasp into satoru’s mouth like you’re trying to disappear inside him.

“there it is,” sukuna mutters, like he felt the second he hit your limit. “tight little pussy's never been fucked, huh?”

you shake your head.

satoru smiles against your lips. “you’re doing so good for us, baby. look at you. takin’ his finger like you were made for it.”

you’re not sure what you’re doing—moaning or whining or begging—but it spills out of you anyway. your hips lift. your thighs twitch. and then sukuna adds a second finger.

you break.

it’s too much. not in a painful way, but in a way that steals your breath. you’ve touched yourself before. you’ve fantasized, dreamed, squirmed through sheets alone in the dark—but nothing like this. nothing that makes your whole body burn and your brain go empty.

satoru’s lips find your jaw, then your throat, nipping lightly, breathing praise straight into your skin.

“you feel it?” he whispers. “feel how good he’s making you feel?”

“mhm,” you whimper, eyes wet, thighs shaking. “too good—feels too—”

“nah,” sukuna says, voice rough, “this is nothing, sweetheart. just wait till you’re stuffed full.”

his fingers curl. you jerk.

the heel of his hand grinds against your clit while he fucks you slow, deep, like he’s learning your body one stroke at a time. and he’s good at it. too good. he groans low under his breath when he feels you clench around him—“fuck, she’s pulsing”—and satoru kisses you through it again, moaning against your tongue.

“you’re gonna cum, huh?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “go on, baby. let us see what it looks like.”

your legs are shaking. your fingers dig into satoru’s shoulders. sukuna fucks you with those two perfect fingers like he owns your pussy now, like it’s his to break open and ruin. and you don’t want to stop it. you don’t even know if you can.

you cum hard. shuddering. gasping. mouth falling open against satoru’s, back arching like you’re trying to climb out of your own skin. sukuna groans low when he feels it—feels your cunt squeezing him, dripping, messy.

“fuck, that’s pretty,” he mutters.

you go boneless.

satoru laughs. “one down,” he says, brushing your hair back. “think she’s got a few more in her.”

sukuna’s still got his fingers between your legs. just there—wet and warm, two thick fingers resting inside you like a reminder of everything he just did. his palm is soaked. your thighs are trembling. and the way his thumb strokes lazy circles just beneath your clit feels like an unspoken threat. like he knows exactly how close you are to cumming again, and he’s not in a rush to let you.

satoru kisses your cheek, then your jaw, nudging your face toward his with his nose. “hey,” he murmurs. “you still with us?”

you blink up at him, dazed. “mhm,” you manage. it’s barely a sound.

he grins, all white teeth and messy hair, and presses his forehead to yours. “good,” he says. “because i’ve been waiting all night.”

you gasp softly when sukuna finally pulls his fingers out. you feel empty—needy again, even though your body’s still buzzing from the last orgasm. you don’t get a chance to complain, though, because satoru’s already shifting between your thighs, cock heavy and flushed and dragging over your inner thigh as he lines himself up.

“you’re so wet,” he whispers, voice reverent. “fuck, angel, you’re dripping for us.”

he pushes in slowly. your head tips back with a gasp, eyes fluttering. he’s thick. not just full but deep—his hips rolling forward inch by inch, spreading you open so slow it makes your toes curl. you’re already stretched from sukuna’s fingers, already wrecked, but this is different. better. more.

satoru shudders. “shit—fuck, she’s tight—”

you clutch at his forearms, hips twitching up instinctively. he sinks in the rest of the way with a soft groan, forehead still pressed to yours.

“feel that?” he whispers. “all the way inside you, baby. you’re taking me so good.”

and you are.

he starts to move. slow at first, rocking into you like he has all the time in the world. his cock drags against your walls, hits something deep that makes your breath catch, and you cling to him harder, legs spreading wider, thighs sticky against the sheets.

behind him, sukuna watches.

he’s propped on one arm, the other hand resting on your waist again—thumb stroking mindlessly, eyes glued to the place where satoru’s cock disappears inside you. “watch her face,” he mutters. “watch how she moans when you fuck her just right.”

satoru adjusts his angle and fucks in deeper.

you cry out—your back arching up into him. he grabs your thigh and presses it up against your chest, hips pressing deeper, harder, filling you to the brim. it’s almost too much. but it’s also perfect.

“you’re close again,” satoru pants. “aren’t you, baby?”

you nod frantically, unable to speak. satoru doesn’t stop. just leans down, kisses you messily, and fucks you through the second orgasm he knows is coming.

“yeah?” sukuna says behind him. “let her mouth do something.”

satoru hums. “mm, she can take you?”

“we’re about to find out.”

you blink, still dazed, as sukuna shifts beside you—kneeling just past your head now, cock thick and heavy, already flushed from watching you get split open. he doesn’t say anything at first. just lets his hand rest in your hair, fingers threading through, thumb stroking along your cheek.

“you wanna be good for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice low. “open up.”

you do.

your lips part, shaky and soft, and sukuna groans when you let him guide his cock to your mouth. he starts slow—just the head, warm and salty on your tongue, the weight of him heavy as he eases in. his hand tightens just slightly in your hair, his other hand resting over your breast, palm rough and familiar.

“fuck,” he hisses. “that’s it. keep your lips soft, just like that.”

satoru is still fucking you—slow, deep strokes that make your body jolt with every thrust. his hand is on your thigh, holding you open, thumb brushing where you’re stretched around him like he wants to memorize how you feel. and now sukuna’s in your mouth, hips rolling forward as he pushes deeper, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue, your lips stretched wide.

“jesus,” satoru pants, watching the way your throat works around sukuna’s cock. “look at her.”

you can barely breathe—but you don’t want to stop.

sukuna groans, hips stuttering forward again, cock slick with spit as you try to take more. “fuckin’—knew you’d suck dick like this. look at you.”

his grip in your hair tightens. his hips rock a little deeper, eyes dark as he watches your mouth stretch around him, cheeks hollowed out like you want to make him lose control. and you do.

satoru slows his thrusts. not out of mercy—just to watch. his hand slides to your stomach, palm splayed out over the skin there, feeling the way you tighten every time sukuna groans. “she’s clenching on me,” he says, laughing. “you’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

sukuna’s cock slides deeper again—your nose brushing his pelvis, your throat tightening around him. he moans, sharp and low. “fuck, baby. you’re not gonna let me cum down your throat, are you?”

satoru laughs. “nah, not yet.”

he fucks into you hard enough to make your cry vibrate around sukuna’s dick. “she’s not done down here either.”

you’re still panting when sukuna slides out of your mouth, fingers brushing your cheek like he’s proud of the mess he made. your jaw aches, throat sore, but you don’t complain. not with satoru still buried inside you, hips grinding slow and deep like he’s trying to draw every last moan out of you.

then satoru pulls out.

“switch,” sukuna says, voice low and rough.

he’s already behind you by the time you blink, hand slipping beneath your stomach to help guide you over—face down, ass up, hips angled perfect as he climbs onto the bed and gets between your legs. his palm spreads across your lower back, pressing down. “stay just like that,” he mutters.

and then he’s pushing in.

you whimper, fingers fisting the sheets as sukuna bottoms out in one slow, thick stroke. your whole body jolts—his cock stretching you wider than satoru’s, deeper somehow, the burn of it curling sharp and sweet up your spine.

“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you’re tight. already stuffed full of him and still—” he cuts himself off with a groan, hips snapping forward harder.

your gasp turns into a choked moan.

and satoru? he doesn’t miss a beat.

he’s standing at the edge of the bed, lazily stroking himself as he watches sukuna fuck you. “you’re really takin’ it, huh?” he says, grinning as he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your face. “you wanna help me out too, pretty thing?”

you nod, dazed.

he steps in closer, guides your mouth open again, and you let him slide in—your lips wrapping around him just as sukuna slams forward. the thrust rocks you onto satoru’s cock, and suddenly you’re the perfect toy between them—sukuna driving into you from behind, satoru groaning as you suck him slow and messy from the front.

“jesus,” satoru hisses, voice strained. “she’s drooling all over me.”

sukuna grunts, fucking you harder now, his grip bruising at your hips. “she likes it,” he growls. “look how sloppy she’s getting. you close again, baby?”

you try to answer, but your mouth’s full—your throat clenching around satoru as tears prick the corners of your eyes. he pets your hair, soft and smug. “think that’s a yes.”

sukuna fucks you rougher, angled just right—his balls slapping wetly against your thighs, each thrust hitting deep enough to leave you shaking.

“gonna cum,” he growls. “gonna fill this pussy up.”

and you’re close too—closer than you should be, with your mouth stretched around satoru and your body trembling from the force of sukuna’s thrusts.

you don’t know which one of you finishes first. but you swear the world blanks out when you do.

sukuna’s thrusts slow. his grip bruising tight at your waist as he fucks in deep one last time—spilling into you with a low, feral groan, hips grinding as he makes sure it stays. you feel it. every pulse of it. hot and thick.

you moan, weak and breathless, around satoru’s cock.

he slides free from your mouth with a hiss, fingers dragging down your spine as he watches sukuna’s cum drip out the second he pulls back.

“holy fuck,” satoru murmurs, eyes blown wide. “look at that.”

you feel it leaking instantly. warm and slow down your inner thighs, smeared across the insides of your knees. you collapse forward with a shaky gasp, face pressing into the sheets as your legs give out. your body’s trembling. ruined.

sukuna groans behind you, dragging his fingers down the seam of your ass—spreading you just enough to watch it spill from your pussy. “fuck, baby,” he mutters. “you made a mess.”

satoru’s hand strokes your hip. “can’t believe you took us both like that,” he murmurs. “so proud of you.”

you can’t speak. can’t move. everything’s hot and slick and glowing under your skin, every nerve buzzing with aftershock.

sukuna flops back beside you, arm tucked under his head.

satoru climbs onto the mattress next, snuggling up behind your back like it’s nothing. like this is just how the night ends. like this is normal.

you’re still catching your breath when someone reaches for the blanket. and everything fades to black.

present day

you wake up warm. that’s the first thing. warm and sore and weirdly… safe. the blanket’s tangled somewhere around your knees, one of your socks is still on, and your mouth tastes like cheap vodka and lip gloss. your head’s pounding. your eyes won’t open all the way. your body aches in places you don’t even have names for. but you’re not alone.

there’s an arm around your waist. a heavy, bare thigh pressed behind yours. someone breathing against the back of your neck. slow, steady, like they’ve been asleep for hours. and in front of you—there’s another body. taller, sprawled out, hair messy, cheek smushed into the same pillow as yours. his arm is under your head like you’d been holding it.

satoru’s hair is white-blond and soft-looking even now, even in sleep. his lips are parted just slightly. his breath smells like spearmint and sugar. he has glitter on his cheekbone. you don’t know if it’s yours or his.

behind you—sukuna. you can tell without turning. you can feel him. his fingers are curled just under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your stomach like he owns the right to be there. one of his rings digs gently into your skin every time he breathes. and you don’t move. not yet.

you’re not wearing pants. or a bra. or—god. you don’t even want to check.

your glasses are nowhere to be found. your thighs are sticky. the room smells like sweat and cologne. and the longer you lie there, the more your brain starts to fill in the blanks. flashes. laughing. lights. someone’s hands on your waist. someone else’s mouth on your chest. sukuna’s voice in your ear, “you’re taking us so well, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply. satoru stirs. the arm around your waist tightens. “you good?” he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.

you don’t answer right away. your pulse is going insane. your phone is dead. your mouth is dry. and you’re lying in the bed of two boys you’ve never said more than five words to—at least not before last night.

“hello?” satoru mumbles again, this time with a small yawn.

you nod, but it’s half-hearted. your voice cracks. “yeah.”

his eyes open slowly—bright and unfocused. they flick down, and then trail lower, past the blanket barely covering your thighs. a lazy smirk starts curling at the corner of his mouth.

“you sure?” he says. “’cause you look kinda… wrecked.”

you groan, pressing your face into the pillow. he laughs, like he already knows every thought running through your head.

“don’t bully her,” sukuna’s voice cuts in behind you. deeper. raspier. his hand spreads wider on your stomach, palm flexing just slightly. “she took us like a champ.”

you feel your entire body go hot.

“please stop talking,” you mutter, still hiding.

“but you were so loud last night,” satoru hums, like he’s just remembering. “i think i’m still hard, actually.”

you make a noise of protest—small and pitiful—and try to roll over, but sukuna’s arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place.

“don’t move,” he murmurs, low against your neck. “not done cuddling yet.”

“not done embarrassing me yet, either,” you grumble.

satoru grins. “what’s to be embarrassed about? you were kind of amazing.”

you peek out from under the pillow. “kind of?”

he tilts his head. “okay, like… very amazing. ten out of ten. would absolutely do again.”

“same,” sukuna adds, lips brushing your skin. “if she wants to, that is.”

you go quiet.

and for a second, it’s weird. real. like the whole thing might shift into something too heavy. but then satoru breaks it.

“so, like—do you want waffles or a protein bar? i’m starving. and my legs don’t work.”

you snort. “waffles, obviously.”

he grins, like it’s the best answer you could’ve given. and sukuna just hums again behind you, nosing at your hair like he’s already dozing off again.

and maybe you’re still sore. maybe your mouth still tastes like tequila and glitter and someone else’s skin.

but you don’t feel weird.

you feel—okay. and that’s somehow the scariest part of all.

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You can already feel yourself leaking, your aching clit begging for something, anything.

Steve wastes no time. He throws your legs over his shoulders, looks up at you through his lashes, then begins his worship.

You gasp and wrap your hands in his hair when his tongue licks up your folds, from your weeping hole to your desperate clit. You moan immediately, throwing your head back, your hips gently rocking.

He suddenly pulls back.

“What did I say?” he asks, voice quiet, but rough.

You love that tone.

“I’m sorry,” you pant. “You just — you feel so good. You make me feel so good.”

He gasps softly. You know how much he loves the praise, how much he needs it when he’s stressed, overwhelmed, desperate for your attention.

“I want you to watch me make you fall apart,” he says, a bit breathless. “And I want to see your face while I do it.”

“Jesus,” you breathe.

You almost throw your head back again when his tongue finds its way back between your folds. He groans loudly, his grip on you tightening. His deep dark eyes never leave yours.

“Thought about this pretty pussy all day,” he murmurs, mouthing at your clit. “Needed you so badly, baby.”

Your fingers grip his hair harder when the tip of his tongue gently swirls around your bundle of nerves. You sound pathetic, making little noises with every single ministration. You’re already panting, back arching.

Just how he likes it.

“You taste so sweet,” he mumbles. “Needed this, too, didn’t you?”

It’s taking everything in you to not look away from his greedy eyes.

“Always need you,” you breathe.

Steve groans, then tapers his tongue, fucking it into you. The bridge of his nose nuzzles against your clit and you gasp, then keen, head falling back for half a second before you force yourself to look down at him again.

He looks obscene. Hooded eyes, looking at you so intensely that it makes your cheeks burn. Determined, pussy-drunk. So in love with you.

“I love you.”

His eyes roll back and he sighs, breathing heavily.

“I love you,” he moans back.

You can’t hide your smile. “Eyes up here,” you pant.

Steve’s eyes snap open. You half expected him to be irritated at your teasing, but he seems to be very into the command.

His tongue explores your cunt messily. Worshipping you while you whimper, then wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking to hear you whine and sigh his name. He uses his nose wherever he can, keeping your clit stimulated at all times.

“Oh, like that, Steve, good boy.”

You tug at his hair and relish in the noises he makes, the way he fights his eyes from rolling back. Desperate, needy. All you want to look at is his face. Cheeks wet and red, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. You swipe it away with your thumb before it gets in his eye and his tongue finds its way deep inside of you, as if it’s a silent thank you.

“Y’gonna cum?” he asks, voice thick with you. “Gonna give me what I want?”

You nod, whimpering, your thighs shaking around his head.

His method turns more precise. Intentional, a little less greedy. Licking your clit with feather light strokes of the tip of his tongue, then circling it slowly. You gasp and arch your back, pulling his hair harder. He groans into you, sucking your clit between his lips.

“Steve,” you breathe. “Oh, god — please don’t stop.”

He huffs out a laugh, then groans lowly when your thighs clench and tremble around his head. Your grip is harsh, pulling his hair hard enough to almost make him pull back. But he’s so starved for you, for the honey between your legs he’s been craving for hours, that he fights against it. Laps at you, flat tongued strokes, avoiding your clit, teasing you. Wants to hear you beg for it.

Your head falls backwards again.

“Fuck,” you sigh, “my clit, honey, please — trying to cum for you —“

“Look at me.”

“Shit,” you gasp, head lolling forward again.

You’d like to apologize, but you’re struck by his intense gaze. Looking at you as if you’re prey.

Begging you to let him be the one that makes you fall apart.

Your mouth falls open, head tilting forward. You shake, closer and closer. Steve’s breathing heavily, making a mess of your pussy, his saliva dripping down your folds and to your ass. You hear little moans from him, stifled by your cunt, made louder when you tug his hair again.

“Please,” you whimper. Asking permission, not for more.

He nods, and watches with hooded eyes as you come on his tongue. You’re good for him, keeping your eyes open even as they want to roll back. You don’t look away from his face as you ride his nose and tongue, as hard as it is. As much as you want to throw your head back and fully relish in it.

His expression makes you come harder, calves and thighs tensing, high pitched moans forced out of you.

You’re exhausted by the time you’ve ridden your high. Your body slowly relaxes, and you allow yourself to tilt your head back against the back of the couch, panting.

Steve’s lips, wet with your arousal, kiss the inside of your thighs while his fingers rub circles into your hips.

“Good girl,” he praises lowly, grinning proudly, cockily.

He’s the only one who can make you feel like this.

“I’ll invoice you,” you pant, smiling lazily.

He sits up on his knees, cradling your face in his hands as he kisses you, transferring your taste from his tongue onto yours. Your hand snakes around the back of his neck, keeping him close, already needy for him again.

You miss along his jawline and reach out for the button of his jeans.

“What are you doing?” he asks, breathless.

You kiss your way to his ear, pressing your lips to the shell of it.

“I don’t get it…” you mumble. “It’s never taken him this long before.”

“Maybe he found something,” Steve shrugs, crossing his arms over his knees.

“Yeah, or maybe he’s lost—”

“He told Joyce he knew what he was doing. So all we have to do now is wait,” Steve interjects to quell your palpable worrying when it swells within the lamplight van. His plush lips curl into a soft pink smirk when he nudges the leg of your desk chair with a worn white sneaker. “And maybe find something to do to pass the time…”

You glare at him over your shoulder, with an annoyed arch to your brow and a curious glint in your eye. “Like what?” you deadpan.

“I don’t know…” Steve lilts with a lazy shrug. “Wanna play truth or dare?”

“Truth or dare?” you squint. “I’m not one of your high school girlfriends, Harrington.”

“Yeah. They weren’t half as in love with me as you are.”

You scoff an emotionless laugh and turn away, if only to hide your smile from him when he rises from his spot behind you.

You’re blanketed instantly in the scent of musky cologne when he kneels at your side, propping one arm along the back of your chair and extending the other towards the desk beside you. He rests his chin in the curve of your neck. You flinch softly when his scruff scratches at the exposed skin there.

“Whatever strokes your ego…” you deadpan.

His lips curl into a smirk against the shell of your ear. The tip of his broad nose brushes your jaw. His chin bobs against your shoulder when he quips, “I know something else you can stroke— Ow!”

Steve winces when your elbow digs into his ribcage. He cradles the right side of his torso with his left hand and grimaces when he flops back onto the carpeted floor.

You shake your head and make no move to comfort him. “You’re such a perv…”

“You love me, though,” he hums with an audible smile in his voice.

You roll your eyes and spin in your swivel chair to face him, finding the boy wearing a crooked smile on his pretty pink mouth, half-propped against the opposite van wall.

His biceps strain against the fabric of his sweater when he folds his arms behind his head. The hem of it rises slightly up his torso, revealing a sliver of his golden stomach, dusted with sparse chestnut hair that trails into his jeans.

His gelled chocolate locks sit in a wild halo on his head, messy from the long night. The dark strands glow a lighter honey color in the amber lamplight, along with the mischievous glitter in his brown-eyed gaze.

He’s beautiful.

And you hate that he’s beautiful.

And you hate even more that he knows it.

“See?” Steve lilts when he catches you staring. “You’re obsessed with me, honey.”

“Do you wanna pass the time or what?” you deadpan.

His grin widens when you slide the heavy headphones from your ears, setting them back on the decibel reader before reaching for the hem of your sweatshirt.

You drag the thick fabric up and over your torso. It falls to the carpeted floor in a crumpled ball when you toss it beside you. It leaves you half-naked, in a pair of high waisted jeans and a black cotton bra — a few years old and a size or more too small, considering how worn it is around the edges and how your plush breasts threaten to spill out over the top of it.

A witty response gets caught in his throat when you slide off the orange cushion. Your knees hit the thin carpet on either side of his waist with a dull thud. Steve’s hands migrate instinctively towards your thighs, resting warm and wide on the outside of your hips when you settle on top of him.

“How ‘bout a game of spin the bottle, then?” Steve jokes, half-strangled at the sight of you.

“How ‘bout you stop talking and lie there and look pretty while I ride you?”

He reaches eagerly between your bodies for the buttons of his jeans, then freezes when your cold fingers wrap around his wrists to halt his movements. The stern, half-disinterested look you give him makes him melt when he meets your gaze.

“We’re on the clock, Harrington,” you scold. “I’m not gonna fuck you.”

“Then what are we…?”

The question dies in his throat when you force his hands back to your waist. Your knees spread wider on either side of him until your hips sit flush against his. The warmth between your thighs meets his clothed cock, which twitches instantly in the confines of the denim.

His wild head tips back against the wall, and his words trail off into a moan. “Oh… This is— so not fair…”

“I think you’ll survive, Harrington,” you quip with a soft smile hinting at the corner of your mouth. “Besides… It feels like you’re pretty hard already. I bet you’ll cum for me in no time…”

His lidded gaze flutters shut when you rock your hips over his lap, up his thighs and down again. The pressure of you against his cock provides him little relief — close but not quite close enough. His grip on your waist tightens in a feeble attempt to pull you impossibly further into him. His breathy, grumbled moans bounce off the lamplit walls.

“I’d do anything to fuck you right now…” Steve confesses in a whisper, words softly slurring.

“That’s too bad…” you coo, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders as you drag your hips up and down his thighs. “You’re gonna have to wait… Think you can do that for me, Stevie?”

“Yes…” he moans lowly, both out of pleasure and in the obedient affirmative.

His wide palms smooth over your ribcage, softly calloused against your delicate skin, like velvet holding silk. He cradles your clothed chest in his hands and dips his thumb into the cup of your bra until your left breast spills out. Then he leans slightly forward, taking your pebbled nipple into his mouth.

You twitch on top of when he nips you gently there, then sigh when he runs his warm tongue over the bite. You twist a hand in his wild hair to keep him close when your rhythm falters.

Each pass over his thighs makes your panties shift against the rough denim of your jeans, a delicious concoction on your sensitive clit. A wet spot has slowly formed along the cotton accordingly, pussy drooling at the friction between your bodies — made perhaps more overwhelming by Steve’s stiff cock between your thighs.

The boy buries his moans against your tits, whining and grunting into the plush skin every time you grind over his lap. The pressure of you against him is merciless and unwavering. His briefs grow damp from the pearls of precum his aching cock leaks when it jerks within the suffocating confines.

He exhales hard through his nose. The warm breath fans along your skin as his tongue runs over your taut nipple. He pulls off of you with a smack.

“I’m close…” Steve pants, rosy mouth swollen and glassy eyes lidded. His hold tightens on your waist, gripping you there like it’s the only thing keeping his reeling mind tethered. “Fuck, I’m close…”

“You should hurry,” you tell him, even though your own voice trembles when the knot in the pit of your stomach threatens to snap — even though your hips start to lose rhythm over his lap when your throbbing clit catches the hard zipper of his jeans. “‘Cause if someone radios in before you’re through, I’m not letting you touch me again—”

He caves instantly at your cruelty.

His pretty face, softly flushed, scrunches with a pained sort of look. His fingers threaten to dig bruises into your exposed skin. “I’m cumming,” he warns on bated breath, voice cracking as his body tenses beneath yours. “Holy shit, I’m cumming—”

“Thank me,” you tell him in a gentle whisper, only because you know he’ll do anything you ask him to.

“Thank you,” Steve mumbles in a broken whisper on instinct, chiseled features crumpling when you tug hard at his hair. “Thank you— Fuck!”

He tenses underneath you, hips twitching as his boxers grow sticky with warm ropes of cum.

Through the heartbeat in his ears and the honey in his vision, he hears you whimpering, too. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders as you bury your face in his neck, burying your pitiful whines there when you cum over his lap.

You’re slow to melt into him, twitching slightly as the high goes away, and turning into a puddle against his chest. Steve presses warm, wet kisses to your neck as you come down.

“That fast enough for you, honey?” he jokes against your burning skin.

You exhale a tired laugh. “Yeah… I think you almost broke your record from the first time we had sex—”

“You promised not to make fun of me for that—” he whines.

“Lovebirds, do you copy?” the radio crackles from the front of the van. “I repeat: Lovebirds, do you copy?”

You huff and roll off of him, adjusting your skewed bra and reaching for your abandoned sweatshirt. Steve trudges back to the driver’s seat, long legs still half-numb from his orgasm. He slouches into the worn pleather with a dramatic huff and grimaces at the wet feeling in his boxers.

He takes the radio in a heavy hand. “Yeah?” he asks into the receiver.

“Why are you so outta breath?” Robin wonders through static.

Steve falters for an answer. “I was, uh— We were just—”

His head whips over to you, eyes wide and pleading.

“Tell her the van broke down, and we had to push it,” you tell him, reciting the lie you’ve used, no less, than five different times on five different party members. “That always works.’

Steve presses the red button on the side of the radio and talks into it once more. “The van, uh— The broke down, and we had to—”

“You can only use that excuse so many times on me, you know?” Robin tells him.

“Shit…” you curse under your breath. “I forgot I used that one on her yesterday…”

“You have got to learn to keep it in your pants, guys. Jeez…”

“Well, you don’t call us Lovebirds for nothing…” Steve quips.

steve coughs a little, taken off guard. he stares up at you with parted lips, like you’re a deity.

you smile down at him. “you’re definitely not hitting this tonight.”

steve’s fingers flex against the ashtray. he smirks. “i’m not hitting what tonight?”

you shake your head at him, trying not to smile.

“tell you what, steve. you take one good inhale of this and i’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”

you ash the joint in the ashtray in his hands.

he’s speechless. feels like a little pet for you.

“that — okay,” he says. always so eager to please.

“i’ll give you a few tries, okay? and i’ll still give you a kiss if you lose.”

steve didn’t know you meant it so literally. you inhale, the joint between your fingers as you cradle steve’s cheeks in your palms. you tilt his head up, sending his heart rate skyrocketing. then you press your lips to his, opening them, and steve gets the memo. his jaw drops a little and he breathes in while you breathe out, whimpering while he does.

he hardly notices that he’s dropped the ashtray. he pulls away from you and coughs, gasping for air, eyes stinging.

“you’re so pretty, steve,” you say, sweeping your thumb across his cheek. “know you’d be so goddamn hot when you’re stoned.”

you grind down on his dick and he gasps. his hands fly to your hips, immediately helping to rock you back and forth against him. by now, the joint has gone out, so you take the opportunity to rile him up more.

“your perfect hair all messy,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

you duck under his chin to kiss the sensitive skin of his neck. his head lolls back to give you more access while his fingers dig into your hips.

“hazel eyes all red and lidded,” you continue, kissing up his neck to his ear. “strong steve harrington, dazed and needy.”

steve groans, hips unintentionally bucking upwards.

and that’s the other thing about steve — he used to get so incredibly horny when he smoked before. it always made him desperate for some kind of touch and attention.

you are definitely exacerbating the effects.

“are you needy already, stevie?”

he nods. there’s no point in hiding it.

you hum, gently biting his earlobe before pulling away. “want to be good for me, angel?”

he nods again. eyes full of love and lust. devotion and worship.

you take the lighter sitting beside him on the bed and hand it back to him. “let’s try again.”

steve’s more confident this time. you press your lips together, steve opens his mouth, and he inhales slowly, steadily. and he does a much better job this time, pulling away to cough only slightly.

“feel anything, honey?” you coo, raking your fingers through his hair and gently rocking your hips.

“maybe a little,” he says hoarsely. or maybe he’s just caught up in a trance.

“want more?”

more eager nodding. practically pouting.

you grin.

the process continues. steve doesn’t cough before you’re done transferring smoke this time. but he coughs after, enough to make him breathless and embarrassed.

“much better,” you praise, grinding on him while he coughs. “good boy, steve. such a quick learner.”

“fuck,” he gasps, “one more try, please, one more.”

“are you positive?”

steve grinds himself against you. “yes.”

the joint’s about to go out again. you take a weak inhale, taking pity on him. it won’t be much at all for him to take.

this time, when steve’s taken all that you’ve given him, he grabs your head in his hands and kisses you. opens his mouth to lick into yours and exhaling the little bit he had left. he doesn’t cough. but he keeps kissing you before you have time to tell him that you’re proud of him. helping you ease yourself against his zipper, his cock so hard it hurts.

and steve loves kissing. but when he’s high, he loves it ten times more. he’s messy with it, moaning, teeth knocking against teeth.

you’re high enough that you don’t care.

when he finally breaks for air, you wrap your fingers through his hair and tug it, grinning when he whimpers. he looks just like you want him to. hair messy, eyes hooded and full of lust, needy and pathetic under you.

“you win, steve,” you say softly. “remember what that means?”

he whimpers. “i get to have you.”

“so smart, baby. whatever you want and need.” your lips are ghosting over his. “have me, steve.”

he grins, then quickly flips you onto your stomach on the bed.

sam nodded his head quickly, eyes screwed shut as you pumped his cock with your hand at a steady pace.

"use your words."

"y-yes," sam whimpered. "f-feels so good- fuck-" he threw his head back with a loud moan.

your thumb ran over the head of his cock, smearing his precum around as he let out tiny noises. you smiled at the sight of him, a complete mess, just for you. he was always good for you.

"such a good boy," you murmured into his ear, pumping your hand faster around his cock. "just for me, right?"

"yes," sam moaned. "just f-for you."

you could see his stomach clenching, a sign that he was about to cum but before he could you pulled your hand away. he let out a long whine as his hips bucked upward.

"be patient, sweetheart. i'll let you cum, eventually." you smiled at him.

pulling sam into a kiss, your nails dragged against his abs, slowly trailing back down as your hand wrapped around him again resulting in sam moaning into the kiss, his hips bucking again. you kept a fast pace as you pulled away from the kiss, but your faces just inches away from each other. you could feel his hot breath hitting your lips in short pants, and his hands grabbed your waist for something to steady him.

"fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered. "please let me cum please, please, please," he begged you.

"i dunno, do you deserve it?" you teased, taking your hand away.

"yes, y-yes please, please- fuck-" tears filled sam's eyes as you stopped for what felt like the hundredth time. "please let me cum."

you didn't respond, starting to pump him again with a quick pace, watching him unravel beside you. "you're doing so good for me, baby. my good boy. just a little longer, okay? you're gonna feel great."

with a few more strokes on his cock, sam let out a guttural moan as his head hit the headboard, his hips jerking into your hand as he came all over his stomach and your hand.

"good boy," you kissed him deeply, his nails leaving marks on your waist.

"what do you say about round two?"

He was stretched out on your bed in an old t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms he kept in the bottom drawer of your dresser–his drawer now. It had happened quietly, somewhere between all the overnights and the morning coffees and the laundry folded with a little too much care. Now, without thinking, he reached for that drawer like it was always his. Like he belonged here, which was the most precious thing you could ask for.

His hair was still damp from the shower you’d made him take when he showed up smelling like sunbaked pasture and motor oil, a smear of dirt on his cheek and a boyish grin on his lips. You could still smell the cedar soap he liked–the one you bought special just for him–lingering warm on his skin. It wrapped around him like a bubble, and radiated off him like a diffuser.

You were across the room, barefoot in your sleep shorts, standing by your record shelf with a glass of red wine balanced in one hand. A loose tank hung from your shoulders, low in the back, swinging gently with every step as you flipped through vinyl sleeves. And every so often–on purpose–you let your hips sway a little more than intended. Just to hear Rhett breathe funny, because you knew he was watching you, it was easy to feel those beautiful blue eyes burning into your backside.

“Somethin’ on your mind, cowboy?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder with a sly grin teasing the corners of your mouth. You didn’t have to see him to feel the way his breath hitched. That subtle ripple of tension that crawled up his chest like he was trying to swallow it down.

Rhett didn’t answer back right away, he just let his head fall back against the wooden headboard with a quiet thud, lips parting, jaw slack. The bedside lamp cast golden shadows over the side of his face–over the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the faint creases near the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair curled damply over his forehead, still messy from the towel-dry you’d done yourself when he leaned into you after his shower to nuzzle into your neck. And his five o’clock shadow had deepened into something darker since dinner–smudging along his jaw like something you wanted to run your tongue across.

He looked too good in this light.

Too warm, too comfortable, too yours.

And yet there was something unreadable in his face–just enough restraint to tell you he was sitting on something. So you turned fully toward him, wine glass loose between your fingers, and arched a brow.

“Well?” Rhett’s gaze lingered on your bare thighs before he finally spoke.

“I ever tell you ‘bout a dream I had…Week or two ago?” He asked, voice gravel-soft. You took a slow sip of your wine, letting the sweetness linger on your tongue. One droplet slid down the curve of your up, and you licked it away lazily, making sure Rhett’s eyes were on your mouth when you did.

”Mmm…” You swallowed, head tilting playfully, “You’ve told me several, hun. You tell me about every single one, so you’re going to have to be more specific.” He looked flustered now. That rare, almost sweet kind of flustered that only came out when he was too far in his own head–when the words he was holding back were heavier than he wanted to admit.

You weren’t wrong to ask for more detail.

Over the course of your entire relationship–nearly a year to the day–Rhett had made it a habit of telling you his dreams. Always in the mornings. Half-awake, head buried in your chest, voice still raspy from sleep. Sometimes they were abstract and bizarre–running through water, being chased by something without a face. Sometimes they were so vividly sexual they left a flush on his chest all morning.

And he always told you.

Which meant this one? This one had been kept.

Either on purpose…Or because he hadn’t known what to do with it.

You watched him now as his hands raked back through his still-damp hair, messing it up even worse than before. He was blushing a little, too–high along his cheekbones, just under the eyes. Like he was embarrassed for the first time in months.

”Might be seen as stupid…” He muttered, looking off toward the window like maybe the night air could somehow bail him out of this conversation. Your brow arched, slow and sharp.

”Rhett Abbott calling one of his dreams stupid? That was not on my bingo card for tonight.” That pulled a soft laugh out of him–real and low and a little sheepish. The kind of laugh he gave you when he was flustered and trying to hide it behind charm.

God, he was so bad at hiding anything from you.

You set your wine glass down gently on the nightstand. The lamp cast your shadow long across the bed sheets as you walked toward him, slow and teasingly. He didn’t even try to look away.

Your eyes locked as you climbed onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly under your weight as you moved to straddle him, knees framing his hips, and the second you settled in his lap, his hands came to rest on your waist like muscle memory. Like he didn’t even think–he just reached for you.

His grip was gentle but possessive. Like you were the thing that steadied him when his mind got too loud. You brushed your fingertips across his chest, feeling the thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and leaned in close.

His eyes met yours. That clear blue–brighter up close. Long lashes. A tiny freckle just under the corner of his left one. His pupils were already wide, already blown a little from watching you all night. But there was something soft in them too. Something unguarded. A quiet vulnerability that had taken you nearly the entire year to fully earn. You tilted your head.

”C’mon now…Enlighten me with this ‘stupid’ dream.” Rhett let out a breath like he’d been holding it the whole damn time. His thumbs stroked slowly along your hips, eyes darting from your mouth to your collarbone and back again, like the memory alone had his body running warm.

“Wasn’t much…” He started, “Not like the usual ones…” You quirked a brow at him.

”The usual ones usually involve you in a barn and me in a sundress with no underwear, so I’d say the bar is high.” That pulled another laugh from him, and it made his whole chest shake beneath your hands. His head tilted forward, resting briefly against your shoulder as he exhaled.

You kissed his temple gently.

When he looked back up at you, his voice dropped–gravel-thick and shy in the way that always hit you deep.

“You were wearin’ my hat.” Your lips parted, but you didn’t interrupt or say anything. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and lingered there.

”You had nothin’ else on.” He rasped, “Just that old brown hat hangin’ by your front door. And you were on top of me…Ridin’ me so slow…” His hands tightened on your hips, voice faltering as he looked at you, like he was picturing it right then and there.

”Like this,” He murmured.

And then–his hands moved.

He pulled your hips forward against his with a slow, deliberate roll, dragging you across the hard line of his erection through the flannel pyjama pants that fit him just right. The friction was deep and unhurried–more suggestion than thrust–but the way he did it…The way his thumbs pressed into your skin, his pupils dilating even further, like they were going to break through the small rim of blue, as he felt the shape of your body align with his–made your breath catch.

A low hum spilled from your throat, and you let your weight sink into his lap, grinding back softly. Rhett’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into you a little harder.

“I dreamt it and woke up so turned on I damn near hurt myself,” He whispered, ducking his head to your neck. His lips pressed there–warm, soft, wanting, and craving–then his teeth scraped the skin just below your ear.

“And ever since then…” He muttered, voice breaking as his hips dragged you against him again, “It’s been stuck in my head. Just can’t seem to get it out…” His mouth traced your jawline slowly, nipping you once–just enough to make your breath hitch. His erection was now straining against the fabric of his pyjama pants, begging for attention and release.

The pressure made you shiver.

One of your hands came up to his cheek. His stubble scratched faintly against your palm, rough and familiar, and you tilted his head gently until your eyes met again.

You kissed him.

And not quick–not teasing.

Slow.

You kissed him like the whole room had melted away. Like it was just the two of you and the flickering shadows and the low hum of the record player turning behind you. His lips parted instantly, mouth soft and eager beneath yours. His hands stayed tight on your hips, but he didn’t move, didn’t grind you against him–he let you kiss him. Let you taste him, guide him, own him for a moment.