Regrets of ending up in that room without any alcohol in his hand, seemed to have flown right out of the room with the smoke. And it might as well have been the residual of weed in the air, but what's happening in his head was alarming. Right across from the person Satoru apparently knew, sat this gorgeous being, looking ever so effervescent and oozing mystique surrounded by clouds of smoke (he is a poet everyone). Wearing, what in his mind seemed like, the most poorly constructed skirt, practically giving away the secret eighth wonder of the world—which are those thighs. And is that fishnet? Someone please check on him, is he having a nosebleed? If not, that tight top perfectly snug around your chest, might do the job. More over the breasts, it was the neck. How can someone find a neck that beautiful? I wouldn't know, ask Suguru.

Real question is who wears knee high socks in the summer? He is not complaining, it somehow really works for you, and it works wonders on him. Again, it might be the weed. It has to be, because Geto Suguru, who is the most calculated person you'll know—sly little shit who is known for being the level headed, mysterious, lady's man— he may be just as much of a menace as Gojo and just as silly, he just knows how to mask it. And he's losing it. He's losing that control, because why aren't his ears working? His eyes refuse to focus on anything but you dragging a smoke out of the joint, which was passed to you by someone. And his legs are moving on their own towards the couch where you are sitting with the only person who you seem remotely interested in, 'might be her friend' he assumes, while ignoring this other guy who seems to be high off his mind talking about who knows what. His ears already made the effort of blocking out every sound, including Gojo's, who was calling him out because he wanted to introduce Suguru to his friend.

"Hey"

Real smooth from Mr. Lady's man over here. Incredible opener to introduce yourself to this person who may or may not be a witch cause why is he completely under this sort of trance as if he is the one sucking on that joint. Also, the fact he is just awkwardly standing in front of you while you look up at him through your lashes, unbothered and definitely high, still sitting on that couch—he must've inhaled too much weed smoke.

"Did you mean to say that to me? Because I think your friend needs you over there actually."

You say after blinking at him twice, then point across to you where Gojo and his friend are sitting. It's rather a given to be confused by this random long-haired Rapunzel to awkwardly stand before you like he doesn't know any better about how to interact socially, he's not drunk definitely, you saw him and his friend stroll in through the doors just a few minutes ago. Why would you even bother to care enough to remember that? Well, Rapunzel here is too gorgeous for his own good, secondly, you're high and feeling rather needy.

Pre-finals week suck, universal sentiment shared by all degree pursuing students. So here you are on this couch, in some frat, with your friend who's seeing one of the frat members. All you expected was some good quality rich boy weed and alcohol, nothing more really. Sleeping with someone you met at a frat party, reeks of STDs. And yet here you are looking at this gorgeous man looking like he doesn't have any thoughts behind his eyes, contrary to what you assumed, from afar he looked like a manipulative man whore. The world might be full of surprises or he's a theatre major.

"Huh?" — is all Suguru somehow manages to utter, it's illegal to smell that good while also smelling like weed, what god forsaken perfume you're using? Those eyes are enough, why do you need to crawl through all his five senses and wrap your hands around his brain.

"Huh." You say with one raised eyebrow. Seems like you've found yourself an excuse to escape.

"Seems like you don't know anything other than three lettered words starting with h."

He just stares into your eyes and lets you throw that jab at him. Really just too enchanted to speak, it's not that this is something he's choosing to do. He'd rather sit across from you and socialize with Gojo, while staring you down from time to time, then after much considerable eye contact, he'll slide himself to your side of the couch, asking your permission to have a seat, with much charisma no one can deny.

Yet here he is, not drunk, or losing his mind with weed—purely high off of sucking in your presence. This is only the second time he has lost control over a situation, and this time he is completely sober. New discoveries are made every second he supposed. Because if a sly talker like him, one who especially finds existential joy in countering the opposing person's jabs, is standing here tongue tied—he believes climate change can be reversed then. (How wishful)

You get off the couch to stand facing him, way too close to him for his sanity's sake, between the narrow gap between him and the couch—you might be shorter than him but your gaze is too piercing. And yet he cannot look away.

"Would you rather I dragged you out of this room? Maybe the smoke is getting to your head huh?"

Takes a second for Suguru to contextualize what you just suggested. And without any power to verbally respond, he simply nods into agreement. Somehow in that moment his incognizant brain decided that maybe leaving himself to your devices in this situation is the most natural thing to do. In fact, you might as well have all consumed him and he couldn't care any less.

All he cares about is that you're taking his hands in your hands, which made him think it might be a missing puzzle piece that only fits in perfectly with his, and dragging him out after a little bye to your friend and Gojo as well. Suguru is really out of it. He's not going to hear the end of it from Gojo, while he retells this story to their friends in the most overexaggerated way, which is so impossible given how ridiculous he is acting right now. Anything less dramatic than a Shakespearean play wouldn't do justice to exactly what played out in there. Yet Gojo Satoru will make sure to put a shame to Shakespeare's dramatics. That's his headache for later, let's focus on the ache in his palpitating heart.

You drag him out of that room, into the big living room or space and then drag him through the crowd to one of the rooms on the first floor, and take him straight to the balcony attached to it. The balcony sits right above the pool. Below you two, you can see most people congregating around there, swimming or just dancing or talking. Most of the speakers are there playing every frat bro's Spotify rotation probably. It's dark enough and tucked away nicely for anyone to notice you two there even if they look up—you saw this balcony the first time you visited this house with your friend cause of the guy she was seeing and since it was not a party, it was clear in the daylight that it was a nice place to people watch from. Or just enjoy the music,

'And her lips are like the galaxy's edge

And her kiss the colour of a constellation fallin’ into place'

Suguru couldn't agree more. If he didn't know any better— he'd say the song was about you. Because right now he is pulling out the lighter out of his pockets. Moving it towards your direction and halting halfway in the little space in between you two. Suguru wouldn't write this out as some kind gesture. He would never even think of sharing his prized lighter. It has been with him since he found it one day visiting his grandma's village home with his parents. Lying in a puddle of mud near the river that flowed behind her house. Scratch random people he wouldn't even let Satoru touch it or let Shoko take a light with it. Yet here he is— silently helping you out all because it looked like with the roll of a joint tucked in your bra, you forgot to bring a light.

You stare back and forth between the burning flame and his face. Contemplating perhaps. Then you move forward grab a hold on his hand, which was holding up the lighter, just a bit far for you to easily lean in and ignite the blunt. So you move, move to now sit face to face with him, both your knees on either side of his thighs—hovering over him, hands holding his, which was holding his silver lit up lighter. You lean forward probably closer to his face than the lighter even, all while keeping constant eye contact. You move your head to your left and finally burn the joint pressed in between your lips, after what seemed like an eternity.

Once the smoke comes out, you unwrap your lips from the joint and smile at Suguru, not one of those half smiles you've been throwing at him all this time. A genuine laidback smile.

"Thanks uh- oh wait I don't even know your name"

"Well I haven't given it to you yet."

"You gave me your lighter, might as well give me your heart. How much more could your name matter?"

Well he might as well have given you his heart and what even is in the name, if he could he would give you the entirety of the galaxy, but It would probably fade out in your comparison.

"Suguru. Geto Suguru."

"Nice to meet you Suguru."

"And what more might you need other than my lighter, heart, and name in exchange for your name?"

"I don't know? Anything tempting you are offering? Perhaps a seat right here?"

Did you mean right there? There on his lap?

"I wouldn't ever deny you anything."

So you did in fact mean his lap. Cause you perch right up on there and drag a long smoke out of your joint, blowing the smoke up in the sky above you two.

"L/n Y/n. And I'll hold you onto that claim."

"Do you always ask people for names in exchange for a seat on their lap?" Suguru smirks and tries to regain some confidence and control over the situation. If he wants to keep you right where you are, he would need to get out of the haze of intoxication — which was ironically not the weed in the air but just your existence.

"I never really ask for names. Really bad at remembering them. And as for seats, hmm I don't know. Your legs looked more comfortable and warm than the cold floor. And you looked sweet."

"Sweet?"

"Why? Does that not describe your —chase Atlantic and Artic Monkeys, cigarette smoker, fuck weed i am better than that, only dark colors— aesthetic?"

"How did you know I don't like weed?"

"Made a face right as you walked into the room down there. Also anyone else would've asked to borrow this by now." You move the blunt in between your fingers slightly to signify what you're talking about.

"Does that not bother you?"

"I mean it doesn't bother you that I am smoking this right in your face, if you had said something I would've respected that as well. I don't really care what you think is the standard for intoxication."

Suguru just smiles. He doesn't really have a topic exactly to speak about. He is in fact not capable of doing much right now you've rid him of the taste of control and the only taste he wants to be acclimated with from this moment onwards is yours. And he doesn't care about this change. He knows your name, he knows the feel of your fishnets against your skin. He knows the material of your lethal skirt. He knows the vanilla and jasmine notes of your perfume. He knows the exact color of your eyes and how many eyelashes you have. And he thinks that is enough.

'You have got that face that just says

"Baby, I was made to break your heart"'

You might as well break his heart, do as you please with it. It burnt away from his grasp the moment you burnt the end of your joint using his lighter.

"Looks like they are more intoxicating than any drug in existence." Was he talking about the blunt? Because his eyes were aimed at your lips. And he was unaware of what he even let slip out of his own lips.

"Suck it and see. You never know." 

Not wasting a second with your unaware confirmation, Suguru moves forward. The hand on your fishnet clad thigh tightens, digging into the supple skin, weaving the fingers with the fishnet itself. The other hand, coming up to your lips, taking out the joint and throwing it out somewhere on the balcony, his fingers first touch your lips with light touches as if one touch is too heavy and you'll disperse into thin air. Slowly the fingers on your lips start pressing down on, well past both of your lips, making an audible gasp leave your mouth involuntarily. His fingers dig around the entrance to your mouth— rubbing your lips, then proceeds to press down on your tongue and graze over your teeth interchangeably. All while staring into your eyes, or staring at you, your eyes might as well be all white or shut close. Anything partially visible, is all a blur. 

And you allow him all of it. You allow him to twist his fingers up to rub his rough finger pads on the along the expanse of your hard palate and soft palate, borderline trying to choke you. You simply allow it. You allow those hands to explore parts of you even out of your own reach. One digging in your mouth, other trying to make itself at home on your thighs—practically memorizing every little stretch mark running along your skin. He wants to know it all, have it all and who are you to deny a starved man? 

When he's had enough of his little exploration, his own pairs of lips come crashing down on you. A sigh of almost a relief, leaves both your lungs. It is not quite relief, it is nice to finally have him kiss you—but his lips are the kind to leave your head dizzy, head swaying, forgetful of the whole process of breathing through your nose while he devours you, eyes flickering like unreliable headlights on the highway. You might as well be crashing out. 

His lips are caging in yours, tongue fencing with yours, hands roaming around you like he's gonna find the most prized treasure on the surface of your skin. Guiding your hips to force down on his lap and roll them into little grids of desperation. Who was exactly the desperate one here? 

At that point it all becomes too overwhelming to have your ability to breath taken away. So you push him off, with no ease. It was as if pushing him and pulling yourself back simply made him hold onto you harder. And when his lips did leave you alone, they go on to chase your lips to find his rightful place back on them.

You put one of your hands on his mouth to halt him, all that does is make you have goosebumps all over your body—having him look up to you with his desperate and hazed mono lids, the purple-brownish shade of his pupils burning you up. And him just heaving in your hand, short of breath, was of no help either. 

“I was talking about the joint.” you breath out with an exasperated sigh.

“Well I am not sorry.” He leaves a feather light kiss on your hand covering his mouth.

“What even are you?” Genuinely, how does a man with gorgeous hair and horrible vocabulary make you fold so easily? 

“‘I am a fool for you.” 

A/N: dividers by @/sister-lucifer & @/omi-resources, header from Boku Ni Hana No Melancholy. And I didn't proofread half of this ok IT IS HARD TO READ YOUR OWN WORK

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