🔪♥️ I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST FRAT PARTY 🔪♥️
PAIRING: quarterback!toji x Cheerleader!Reader x Sukuna Ryomen (Poly/Rivalry), Reader x plug!Choso, Reader x mult. CAST: frat-president!gojo, frat!geto, prof!nanami, plug!choso, bestfriend!shoko, professor!nanami
You were the IT-girl Cheerleader, the perfect girl on Quarterback!Toji’s arm—until the Frat party turned the summer into sin and secrets. Toji and Sukuna put aside their rivalry to haul a plastic-wrapped secret to the old pier while Gojo and Geto scrubbed the blood from the floor. You all made a pact: the lake doesn't talk.Someone was watching from the shadows of the woods. And even worse—Professor!Nanami is starting to notice the change.
“Check your notifications, IT-girl. I’ve got the footage of the 'accident.' Now, tell me... what is a Zenin’s life worth to you?”
WARNINGS [18+] SMUT, violence, accidental death, body disposal, drug use (pills/blunts - DONT DO DRUGS BABES), possessive behavior, public claims, cheating (?) and angst
Chapter 1: THE SUMMAR INCIDENT
The sky is a bruised violet, bleeding into the last strobes of sunray electric orange. It doesn’t just set; it feels like it’s being dragged down by the weight of the heat of yet another summer night ahead.
The stadium lights hum with a violent, electric frequency—angry drums getting louder with every beat. The air is thick and warm, a cloying mixture of cheap beer and weed, freshly cut grass, and the metallic scent of sweat. There is ecstasy in the air.
The drums and college hymns grow louder and louder, your college overtuning the voices of the college from the next town, standing no chance to overpower the sound.
You’re standing on the sideline of the game, the sequins of your uniform catching the lights of the stadium like you're covered in Swarovski.
Your skin is slick, glowing, and healthy.
You aren’t cheering for the school. You’re cheering because the camera is on you, and you know exactly how to frame your own body against the violence of the game.
You don’t adjust the skin-tight cheerleading top as your breasts get pushed tighter while throwing your arms in the air, pom-poms cheering with the perfect rhythm of the sound.
You know exactly how many eyes are on you. Cheerleaders like you don’t just sell spirit. You sell the fantasy of what winning looks like.
Behind you, the game is at full power. Pads crash together so hard the sound rips through the stadium. It's not clean and it's not pretty.
There is too much testosterone and too much to prove in this last game before summer break. You turn at the perfect moment to spot your sweetheart. Toji is a god on that turf.
Broad shoulders, smudged with grass and dirt—sweaty and manly. It feels as if nothing in the world could knock him off balance. Your hips roll, and the little cheerleading skirt almost jumps up the well-defined curve of your ass. You feel electric.
Only a couple of meters from Toji stands Sukuna. He’s grinning behind his mouthguard. Not friendly. In the game, he is never friendly.
While the other players seem exhausted, he is still at full power, the violence of the game only edges him on more. They collide near the sideline—helmets cracking, bodies twisting, hands grabbing fabric where they shouldn’t.
Sweat drips down your lower leg, your skin hot in the late evening heat.
Next to you, all your girls are in perfect sync, enjoying themselves as much as you are. The red and black outfits and pom-poms make you look like priestesses.
You squat down, ruffling the pom-poms, Shoko close behind you, the hem of your skirt touching hers as your cheer group begins its next dance.
Sukuna takes a second look, for a moment distracted from the game—focused instead on the curve of your naked lower back falling into the curve of your ass.
Toji takes the ball and runs straight into hell. A linebacker slams into him low and hard—something Sukuna could have prevented if he wasn't gooning at you.
The crowd screams, angry voices booing the opposing player. Toji stumbles, recovers, and keeps moving like his body doesn't register damage the way other people do. The crowd explodes. Sukuna is already back in the game, high on testosterone, laughing behind his mouthguard. He loves what’s about to come—when the rules start to fray.
Sukuna charges in early, shoulder first, his helmet tilted just enough to make the player who just slammed into Toji feel instant pain. It’s too hard.
As Toji runs into the end zone, securing the definitive win for your college, the stadium goes feral. Some are already lighting bright red pyros. The referee storms onto the field, face red, veins popping on his neck.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yells, pointing straight at Sukuna. “This isn’t a street fight!”
The player Sukuna slammed into lies on the floor, helmet off, half his face drowned in the blood of a surely broken nose. Sukuna spreads his arms slowly, mock-innocent. “What the fuck am I supposed to do? I tripped.”
As you and the other cheerleaders jump up and down, celebrating with the crowd, you watch as Sukuna pulls off his helmet, ruffling his hair as sweat drops fall into the dark.
He steams, fine lines of heat rising from him. He looks like the fucking devil come to life.
People throw cups, whistling. The other college is not happy with the dirty game. The referee turns on Toji next, who steps beside Sukuna. The referee stabs his finger into Toji’s chest plate.
“And YOU—fucking control your players! I told you in the half-break: stop fucking terrorizing the field!”
Toji’s helmet is off, falling next to Sukuna’s on the grass. Sweat drips down his jaw, his dark hair wet and sticking to his flushed cheeks. His eyes are dark. You can't hear what he says, but you know that almost evil grin of his. Whatever he says is enough that the ref’s jaw tightens. Suddenly, it almost seems like he’s intimidated by the two college men in front of him.
Both of them are steaming, loaded with the ecstasy of winning and testosterone. Their builds, plated with the heavy uniforms, make them look like Marvel movie gods with heaving chests.
“This is your final warning. Both of you. Or I will make sure none of you get on this field next year!”
Yeah, right, you think to yourself. That has to be the dozen-th final warning both of them have received. Each.
The ref backs away, still shouting, still furious. The medical team lays the knocked-out player on a bench, bringing him near the sideline and into the locker room. The crowd is chanting now—one half celebrating the win as the bass of "Gypsy" plays at full volume. The other half is chanting names and insults, promising revenge.
“Stop eyefucking your men and concentrate!” Shoko shouts at you. You laugh, pulling your gaze from Toji and Sukuna as they walk next to each other, laughing wickedly.
You lift the pom-poms again, slow and deliberate.
The humidity is so thick you can practically see it—a shimmering haze of heat and pheromones trapped under the stadium lights. The game is over, the field is a wreck of celebratory chaos, and the speakers are screaming. Heads Will Roll is now playing at full volume.
“Off with your head. Dance 'til you're dead.”
The anthem thumps so hard you feel it in your teeth. You’re standing on the sideline, confetti sticking to your damp skin, when your eyes drift toward the student section—the part of the stands where the air feels ten degrees hotter because the ego is so dense.
Gojo Satoru is standing on the bench, a god in a white jersey—open now—silhouetted against the indigo sky. He’s got one arm thrown toward the heavens like he’s leading a ritual, a red solo cup in his other hand splashing cheap beer onto the people below him. He’s grinning, his head thrown back, singing the lyrics at the top of his lungs, his voice lost in the roar of the music. In the strobing lights, he looks invincible—a king of the summer, high on his own adrenaline.
Next to him, Geto Suguru is the anchor to Gojo’s chaos. He’s leaning back against the railing, his head tilted back until his throat is a long, exposed line. He’s holding a joint with the casual grace of a man who knows not one of the security men will dare arrest him. He exhales a plume of smoke that glows neon-violet in the stadium lights, his eyes half-closed, tracking the movement of the stars or maybe just the vibration of the bass.
Then there’s Yuki. She’s standing on the other side of Gojo, her hair a messy, dark blonde halo caught in the wind. She’s wearing a tiny crop top that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, jumping in time with the beat. When you spot her, her face lights up with a jagged, reckless grin. She starts waving both arms frantically, her body moving with the rhythm of the drums—every jump sending her chest bouncing under the thin fabric of her top. She doesn't care who’s watching; she never does.
Gojo notices her waving and looks down, his blue eyes finally finding yours through the crowd. He tilts his cup toward you, his grin widening, mouthed lyrics still spilling from his lips: “Off, off, off with your head.” It’s the peak. The climax. Flags fly.
The players are now near the sideline, looking like they're returning from a war they enjoyed winning.
Toji and Sukuna are shoulder-to-shoulder, a terrifying wall of obsidian muscle and ego, their jerseys torn and stained with grass and sweat. The testosterone is a physical pressure, thick enough to choke on.
Sukuna is the first to lock eyes with you. He’s drenched, his hair matted to his forehead, the black ink of his tattoos dark against his flushed skin. He grabs a water bottle from a trainer, tilting his head back to drink, the muscles in his throat working with a rhythmic, primal hunger. He catches your gaze and winks, grinning—a slow, predatory twitch of his eye—before spitting a mouthful of water onto the turf like he just tasted blood.
Then there’s Toji. Your boyfriend doesn't just walk toward you; he claims the space.
He’s radiating a dry, aggressive heat. Before you can even breathe, he reaches out and hooks a hand around your naked waist, yanking you into his orbit with a force that knocks the wind out of you. His body is a furnace, his skin slick and smelling of adrenaline and sweat. He doesn't say a word. He just crashes his mouth onto yours in a kiss that isn't about affection—it’s about dominance. It’s messy, hot, and desperate. His hands slide down, gripping the back of your thighs before his palms find your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you squeak into his kiss, laughing. He gives it a sharp, echoing smack that makes a knot form in your lower belly—a public claim for everyone in the stands who watched you dancing.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. He doesn't let go; his fingers stay dug into your hips, anchoring you to the reality of his weight. He leans in one last time, his lips against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive vibrate.
“Keep that energy for later,” he growls, his breath hot against your damp skin. “Because before we go to the pool party, we need to celebrate with a fuck.”
He gives your waist one final, firm squeeze—a silent reminder of who you belong to—before he pivots. His face shifts instantly from that dark, private hunger back to the mask of the victorious Quarterback. With a jagged grin, he turns toward the college section, raising his arms and roaring with the crowd, clapping his massive hands together in a rhythm that sounds like thunder. Your heart is filled with happiness and ecstasy, nipples poking through the sweat-dampened cheer top, hard from the promise Toji gave you.
This night couldn't get any better.
In the chaos of the cheering, a shadow falls over you. Sukuna has moved closer, standing so near that his damp shoulder brushes yours. The crowd is screaming, but his voice is a low, intimate crawl beneath the noise. “The way you moved out there,” he says, his voice raspy, his eyes tracking the line of your throat down to your breasts, eyeing the print of your hardened nipples, “sexy as fuck. You were dancing for me, weren't you, IT-girl?”
He doesn't wait for an answer. He just laughs, that dry, hollow sound, and follows Toji into the swarm of bodies, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering against your ribs. Toji is already heading back to the locker room, a titan reclaimed by his teammates, but the heat where his hands just gripped you feels branded into your skin.
Shoko swaggers over, her brown hair a mess of sweat and glitter, her uniform top pulled dangerously low. She’s grinning, popping a piece of gum with a sharp crack.
“God, you two are so fucking performative,” Shoko laughs, throwing an arm around your neck and pulling you into a hug. Cheerleading leaves you both ecstatic every damn time. She smells like strawberry lip gloss and the menthol cigarette she definitely smoked as soon as the game ended. “The whole student section just got a front-row seat to your and Toji’s foreplay. I think the girl in the third row literally came. You guys would make numbers on PornHub, I’m telling you.”
“It’s just the adrenaline, Shoko,” you mutter, trying to smooth down your skirt, though your hands are trembling.
“Is it?” Shoko pulls back, her eyes sharp, tracking the way your gaze unconsciously flickers toward the locker room tunnel where Sukuna just disappeared. She leans in, her voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone. “Because Toji looks like he’s ready to kill someone, and Sukuna looks like he’s ready to die for a piece of your ass.” She edges closer, her hip bumping yours, her grin turning wicked. “I saw him, you know. Standing right there. He didn't just tell you the dance was sexy—he looked like he wanted to eat you right here and now. And Toji? He kissed you like he was marking territory before a war. I thought you two got into it before the game?”
“Stop it, behave yourself,” you say laughing, pinching her waist.
“I’m just saying, girl,” Shoko laughs, her fingers tracing the sequins on your shoulder. “We got a pool party ahead of us. Enough sex ahead. Leave a break for that poor referee.” She winks, blowing a bubble that pops against her lips. “Come on. Let’s get to the house. I need a shower and to get ready.”
The stadium lights flicker, losing the battle against the deepening violet of the night. The humidity has reached a breaking point, making everything feel heavy and wet.
As you and Shoko weave through the thrashing bodies of the victory celebration, ready to get your bags and go to the shared apartment on campus to get ready for the afterparty, two familiar figures detach themselves from the shadows of the bleachers.
Gojo Satoru is leading the way, his white jersey still unbuttoned, showing off his muscled chest, a red solo cup held aloft like a scepter. He’s already glowing with that specific, terrifying radiator-heat of someone who’s four drinks deep and feeling like a god. Next to him, Geto moves with a serpentine grace, his dark hair falling out of its bun, a lazy, lopsided grin playing on his lips. Trailing slightly behind them is Yuki, looking like a fever dream in a gold lamé bikini top and denim cut-offs. She’s already holding a beer in one hand and a half-eaten peach in the other, her eyes bright with a dangerous, drunken shimmer.
“There she is!” Gojo shouts, his voice booming over the anthem still blasting from the speakers. He reaches out, pulling you into a messy, one-armed hug that smells like expensive cologne and gin and tonic. He’s buzzing—literally vibrating with energy. “The star of the field. The girl who makes Toji fucking run like a bull.”
“Careful, Satoru,” Geto murmurs, stepping into your space. He leans down, his forehead almost touching yours, the smell of weed clinging to his clothes. He looks at you with a heavy-lidded, flirtatious intensity. “That performance out there...” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvet rasp. “Pure provocation. You looked like you were trying to see which one of them would snap first. You aren't exactly innocent; that linebacker from the opposing team almost lost his head.”
He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dropping to the pout you playfully made before flicking back up with a knowing, predatory softness. Gojo lets out a sharp, barking laugh. “God, Suguru, stop trying to stop her rizz and let’s get to the house! The ice is melting and the beer pong table isn't going to set itself up!”
Shoko grabs your hand, her grip sweaty and insistent. “Come on! I need a drink, shower, and to get ready—in that order!”
As you’re swept away by the group, your phone pulses with a new notification.
TOJI: “I’m in the third stall. Get back here before I come out and drag you in.”
Staring up at the stars that look like spilled diamonds, erotic energy hums in your blood—a low-frequency vibration that started on the sidelines and has now settled deep in your marrow. Your skin still feels the phantom pressure of Toji’s hands. You can almost feel the weight of him, the way he looked at you in the locker room, the raw, unadulterated promise of what’s about to come.
11:42 PM – THE FRAT PARTY 🍹 🍸
The vibe is a neon-soaked fever dream. The mansion is a skeleton of glass and steel, vibrating with a bassline so deep it feels like your heartbeat is being synced to the music. The big garden pool is a shimmering, glowing turquoise, illuminated from beneath so the water looks like liquid jewelry. Bodies are everywhere—glossy, tan, half-naked, and draped in the hazy purple glow of the lights.
You're sitting on the edge of the pool, the water a glowing turquoise that makes your legs look even more sun-kissed. The air is so humid it feels like a physical touch. You have a drink in one hand that tastes like sugar and gasoline. Your hair is damp, and the air is thick with the scent of chlorine and expensive weed. Government Hooker by Lady Gaga and other pop songs blast through the speakers.
Shoko, Yuki, and a few other cheerleaders are circled around you in the water, bodies glimmering. You’ve been playing Who Am I?, laughing hysterically at the bad guessing.
"Okay, okay, am I... a politician?" Shoko asks, squinting through the smoke of her third cigarette.
"No," Yuki giggles, leaning back so far her gold bikini top nearly disappears under the water. "But you’re definitely a narcissist with a body count."
"Wait..ohhh, what the fuck guys... am I fucking Ted Bundy?!" Shoko shrieks, her laughter cutting through the bass like a blade. She splashes the perfectly cool water at you, her chest bouncing under the thin fabric of her bikini top. "You sick fucks!”
You’re laughing, actually laughing, the erotic hum of the night vibrating in your chest. You look down at your own legs, the way the turquoise light ripples over your thighs, and you think about Toji. You think about the way his skin felt against yours in the locker room, the rough, salt-heavy taste of him. Your internal clock is ticking toward the moment he finds you again, and the anticipation is a sharp, localized heat between your legs. Now Yuki is the one splashing you with water as she jumps out of the pool next to you, leaving you dripping wet again, your bikini top barely holding on. She grabs a towel and winks at you.
"If you think about him any harder, you're going to set yourself on fire, babe. Toji's coming. Relax. Drink the blue stuff."
"I am soooo relaxed," you say smiling, winking at her, the ice in your glass clinking against your teeth.
Gojo suddenly appears at your side, leaning over to steal a sip of your drink. He’s wearing nothing but linen shorts, his skin glowing. "So… why are my favorite sirens busy gossiping when there’s a beer pong table waiting to be conquered?”
“Oh babe, I can't play another round. I’ve moved on to stronger things by now,” you murmur, adjusting the strap of your top.
Geto drifts over from the bar, his dark hair loose and clinging to his damp shoulders. He holds out a hand, handing you a blunt.
The party doesn't just go quiet; the air pressure shifts. Toji and Sukuna walk out together—a terrifying, shirtless wall of testosterone and V-tapered architecture. Toji is wearing low-slung, cut-off black jeans that look like they're barely holding onto his hips, his skin still mapped with the faint red scratches of your earlier encounter. Next to him is Sukuna. He’s shirtless too, his tattoos looking like wet ink in the purple strobe lights. He takes a long drag, exhales the smoke toward the moon, and then looks directly at you, flicking his tongue over his teeth in a way that makes your skin crawl with fire.
"The kings have arrived," Gojo yells, celebration in his voice, holding a bottle of tequila like a trophy. "About fucking time!"
You don't get up. You just lean back on your elbows, arching your back so the neon light catches the curve of your chest. Toji doesn't even blink. He walks straight to the edge of the pool, his shadow falling over you like a curtain. He reaches down, his fingers tangling in your damp hair, forcing your head back gently so you have to look up at him.
"You're already drunk, baby, aren’t you?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that skips the ears and goes straight to the gut.
"Just a tiny bit," you whisper, reaching up to trace the line of his sixpack. His skin is like hot granite.
Gojo stumbles over, tequila bottle still in his hand, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. "Listen, Pornstars. Suguru has something new from Choso to make this a truly legendary night.”
Geto drifts into the circle that has now formed around you and Toji. Yuki is still next to you and Shoko is sneaking up from the water. He opens his palm to show all of you the neon-pink pills, his eyes soft and utterly seductive. "One for each of us, Choso said. To make the night move as slow as your heart is beating right now."
The neon-pink pills catch the strobing violet light, looking like tiny hearts. You look up at Toji, your eyes wide and heavy with an unstated challenge. He’s crouching next to you, his bare chest heaving slightly, his shadow long and jagged across the turquoise pool. He doesn't look at the drugs; he looks at you, his jaw set in a hard, protective line.
"Is it safe?" Toji’s voice is a low, dangerous rumble directed at Geto.
Geto just smiles that smooth smile. "Of course. It’s from Choso. You know he doesn't miss."
Toji hesitates, his protective instinct warring with the frantic, hedonistic energy of the night. You don't look away from him; you let your gaze linger on the scar on his lip, daring him to let go.
"God, Toji, stop being such a father figure," Shoko groans, reaching into the baggie and popping a pill onto her tongue with a reckless wink. "I trust Choso more than I trust the dean. I’m in."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, barking laugh from the shadows of a pillar. He steps forward, his tattoos shimmering under the strobe lights, and snatches a pill from Geto’s palm. He swallows it dry, his eyes locked on Toji with pure, unadulterated mockery. “Don't be such a pussy," Sukuna taunts, his voice dripping with venom. "Or are you scared you can't handle the ride?"
Toji’s green eyes flash. The challenge is set. He reaches down, takes a pill from Geto, and then looks at you. He snaps another pill in half with a blunt, practiced motion.
"Half for you," he growls, pressing the fragment against your bottom lip until you open for him. "If things get weird, you tell me. Understand?"
You swallow it, the chalky taste hitting your throat, and the night begins to shift.
The air at the edge of the infinity pool has become a thick, intoxicating syrup of salt, chlorine, and the heavy, floral scent of night-blooming jasmine. The speakers are pulsing with a fast, techno-pop remix. You’re in the center of a circle of bodies, flanked by Shoko and Yuki. Shoko is laughing, her head thrown back, a drink splashing over the rim of her cup as she moves with a messy, effortless grace. She grabs your hands, spinning you around, her skin slick and hot against yours.
"Look at us!" Yuki shrieks over the bass, her gold top shimmering like a second skin. "We’re the fucking goddesses!”
She pulls you both into a tight, swaying hug, the scent of strawberry lip gloss filling the air. For a moment, it’s just girlhood—soft, breathless, and hysterical. You’re laughing until your ribs ache, leaning your forehead against Shoko’s shoulder, feeling the vibrations of the party through her chest. It’s the kind of joy that feels like it could last forever, a golden shield against the darkness of the summernight.
You pull away, breathless and flushed, your eyes drifting toward the outdoor bar. The air between you and the guys suddenly feels vacuum-sealed.
Toji and Sukuna are standing together, a wall of obsidian muscles and silent adoration.
They aren't talking. They aren't laughing. They are just watching you.
Toji is leaning against a marble pillar, his arms crossed over his bare chest, his eyes dark and dilated, tracking the way your sweat-slicked skin catches the purple strobe lights.
Next to him, Sukuna is perched on a barstool, a blunt burning down to the filter between his fingers. He’s leaning forward, his gaze fixed on the movement of your hips with a hunger so raw it feels like a touch. They look like two predators watching a single prize, their rivalry simmering just beneath the surface of the "team" they've built for the night.
Gojo drifts up behind them, looking like a chaotic angel. He follows their gaze, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face as he takes a long pull from his red cup. He leans in between Toji and Sukuna, his voice a melodic taunt. “God, you two are pathetic," Gojo chirps, his blue eyes gleaming even more than normal. "Why don't you take a picture? It’ll last longer than the high."
Toji laughs, clapping his big hand against Gojo’s neck. "Shut up, you nasty bastard."
"Well then, make me, Quarterback," Gojo whispers, his grin widening. He looks at Sukuna. "And you? You're drooling on the marble, Ryomen.”
Sukuna doesn't even blink. He just takes a final drag of his blunt and exhales the smoke into Gojo’s face. "Just shut that mouth for a moment, Satoru," he rasps, his eyes never leaving yours. "Some things are meant to be witnessed."
The garden party has transformed into an altar of hedonism.
You are pressed against the cool wall of the pool house, but all you can feel is the furnace of Toji’s body pinning you in place. He’s a mountain of hot, damp skin, smelling of the field and dark, expensive bourbon. His mouth is on yours—not just kiss, but a slow, rhythmic consumption of lips and tongues. His hands, calloused and massive, are anchored on the curve of your ass, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin of your cheeks with a possessive, agonizing friction. Every time he breathes, you feel the corded muscle of his chest grind against your breasts.
"You're so loud," he growls against your lips, his voice a gravelly vibration that travels through your teeth. "Even when you're quiet, your heart is screaming."
You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as the pink haze of the drug makes the stars above dance. "That’s why ya love me, Toji," you breathe, your fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there is no air left between you.
Across from you, framed by the jagged architecture of the outdoor bar, Sukuna is a silhouette of pure, voyeuristic malice. He’s sitting on the edge of a glass table, one leg hiked up, a blunt burning lazily between his fingers. He is simply watching.
Every time Toji’s hand slides lower, every time your back arches in a silent gasp, Sukuna takes a drag of smoke, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. He’s close enough to see the flush on your skin, the way your pupils are blown wide. He flicks a stray ash onto the grass, his tongue sliding over his teeth in a slow, wet motion that feels more intimate than a touch.
The erotic tension is suddenly shattered by a violent crash near the DJ booth. The music doesn't stop, but the rhythm of the night curdles instantly. Naoya Zen’in is in the center of the wreckage, his eyes full of aggression. He’s got his hand around the throat of a boy from the football team, his knuckles white.
"You think you can talk to me like that?!" Naoya shrieks, his voice a jagged edge. "I am the blood of this school! I'll put you in the dirt!"
Toji pulls away from you, the loss of his heat making you shiver in the humid air. His face transforms—the lover vanishes, replaced by the predator. He shares a single, wordless look with Gojo and Sukuna.
Toji and Sukuna move as one. There’s no hesitation, no discussion. They converge on Naoya with a predatory speed that makes the crowd gasp. Gojo and Geto are right behind them, their faces shifting from amusement to a cold efficiency. They grab him—Toji’s massive arm around his chest, Sukuna’s hand on his jaw—and drag him toward the glass doors of the mansion. Naoya is kicking, spitting, his screams muffled by the heavy thud of the bass until the doors hiss shut behind them.
Time becomes a distorted loop. You don't know if it’s been five minutes or fifty. The drug is starting to settle into a cold, hollow paranoia. The party outside feels like a movie playing on mute. You stand up, your legs feeling heavy and disconnected, and walk toward the house. The interior is a tomb. The air-conditioning is humming a low, mechanical dirge. You climb the marble stairs, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. The hallway is long, lined with pictures of your friends that catch your reflection—disheveled, pupils blown wide, a ghost in sequins. You reach the master suite. The door is heavy, solid oak, but it’s slightly ajar. You push it. It swings open with a slow, agonizing groan.
The room is a crime scene. Naoya is sprawled in the center of the white rug, his hair damp with dark red blood. His silk shirt is torn, revealing a chest that has stopped moving. You freeze. The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, jagged hiss.
"Is he..." your voice is a broken whisper, barely audible over the hum of the AC. "Is he fucking dead?"
No one answers. Gojo is standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his forehead pressed against the cold glass. He looks small, his usual god-complex shattered into a thousand frantic pieces. Geto is slumped in an armchair, staring at his own hands as if they belong to a stranger. Toji and Sukuna are the only ones moving. They are crouched over the body, their skin splattered with dark, wet constellations of crimson.
"Toji," you choke out, stepping into the room. "Toji, look at me. What the fuck is going on here??!! Is he dead!?"
Toji finally looks up. His eyes are hollow, the dark pupils swallowing the iris. "It was an accident," he says, his voice a dead, flat rasp. "He wouldn't stop. He grabbed a shard of the Belvedere bottle. He was going for Satoru’s throat. We just tried to... we just tried to pin him down."
"He snapped," Sukuna adds, his voice terrifyingly clinical as he wipes a smear of blood off his forearm. "He basically slit his own throat. An accident."
"We have to call the police or an ambulance," you say, your voice rising in panic. You reach for your phone, but a hand clamps over your wrist like a steel shackle. It’s Geto. He’s standing now, his eyes dark and desperate. "We can't. Look at him—and then at us. We're fucking high and drunk.”
"He’s a Zen’in," Gojo suddenly snaps, turning away from the window. His face is pale, his blue eyes wild. "Do you have any idea what that means? The Zen’in family doesn't do 'accidents.' They do retribution. They own the police; they own the courts. If they find out we were all high and we killed their golden boy... we don't just go to prison. We disappear."
"He's my cousin," Toji growls, standing up and towering over the room. He looks at the body of his own blood with a mixture of loathing and terror. "I know how they work. They’ll see the marks on his neck. They won't care about the glass shard. We’ll be in a cell before the sun comes up.”
"We're students," you plead, tears stinging your eyes. "It was an accident! We can explain—"
"Explain what?" Sukuna sneers, stepping over Naoya’s cooling body. "That we were having a drug-fueled orgy of ego while the Quarterback slit his neck? Use your head. The money, the drugs, the power... it’s all against us. We call the cops, and our lives end tonight."
The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence. The only sound is the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of blood hitting the hardwood floor where the rug doesn't reach. Toji walks over to you. He grabs your shoulders, his grip bruisingly tight. "We can't go to prison for this. Not for him. He was a piece of shit who tried to kill us. We aren't letting him take us down from the grave."
"What are we going to do?" you whisper, looking at the body.
"We hide him," Gojo says, his voice suddenly cold, his "Limitless" persona snapping back into place as a defense mechanism. "The party is still going. Nobody saw them take him up here. We wait for the crowd to thin, we wrap him up, and we take him to the lake."
"The lake," Geto repeats, a shudder running through him. "The deep end. By the old pier."
You look around the room—at the boys you loved, the boys you suddenly feared, the boys who just became murderers. The neon-pink high has curdled into a permanent, freezing nightmare.
"Get the plastic from the basement," Toji commands, looking at Sukuna. "Satoru, clean the floor. You... you just... you have to stay here. Go to the bed. If anyone knocks, you tell them Naoya is passed out and nobody is allowed in. You play the IT-girl. You play the part of your life."
The next hour is a blur of cinematic horror. You stand guard at the door, the muffled sounds of the party downstairs serving as a grotesque soundtrack. Behind you, you hear the wet sounds of the rug being rolled up, the rhythmic scrub-scrub-scrub of Gojo and Geto cleaning the hardwood with bleach that burns your nostrils and eyes. Sukuna and Toji work in silent, brutal sync, wrapping Naoya’s body in heavy industrial plastic they found in the garage. The sound of the duct tape being pulled—zip, zip, zip—is a noise that you know will haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.
They move with the efficiency of men who have already accepted their damnation. When it’s done, the room is unnervingly clean. The rug is gone. The blood is gone. There is only a long, heavy bundle on the floor and five people who will never be the same.
"Tonight stays here," Toji says, looking at each of you in turn. "We go to the lake. We drop him. We go home. And we never, ever speak his name again."
Note: This story is heavily inspired by the premise of I Know What You Did Last Summer. The core concept of a group covering up a fatal accident and being stalked by a witness is a tribute to that classic thriller; the original idea and themes belong to its respective creators. Happy for feedback 💌
