hii! you can call me cosmic :) my pronouns are she/her <3
below you'll find the link to my masterlist, my request inbox, and the link to credit the artist who made the dividers i use. requests are currently open and you'll find a list of what fandoms/characters i write for below as well :) i'm always open to chat so don't be afraid to send me anything.
jjk masterlist
house of the dragon masterlist
marvel masterlist (in progress)
talk to me! (requests or just anything you wanna say)
i write:
marvel (steve rogers, bucky barnes, thor odinson, johnny storm, peter parker, loki laufeyson)
akotsk (aerion targaryen, daeron targaryen, baelor targaryen, sir duncan the tall)
smut, angst, fluff—you name it, i'll (probably) write it.
you can always request someone/something not on this list but i'll probably have to decline unless i know the character. don't be afraid to try though!
pairings: rhaenyra targaryen x reader, daemon targaryen x reader, rhaenyra targaryen x daemon targaryen, rhaenyra targaryen x reader x daemon targaryen
wc: 5.6k
series tags: angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, unrequited (not actually unrequited) love, eventual smut
notes: smut is in the beginning and it is not explicit at all. BTW! i publish these first on ao3 every time and i might start just publishing them there soon so CHECK ME OUT HERE if you wanna keep reading this (and any other game of thrones universe fics i post in the future heh). enjoy!
song inspo: nothing sweet by the sundays, wandering ii by eydís evensen
The Realm's Delight.
Rhaenyra wonders, what does this Delight, look like? Act like?
There is one within her who stands meekly to one side, always to the side. With a very soft voice that once spoke loudly but became too accustomed to not being heard, and pretty violet eyes and heart shaped lips, skin like the smooth crescents of the moon.
This is the one she, secretly, most enjoys to be. Rather, to become, because to her utter detriment this is not the one she truly is.
It is the other, this Beast, residing in a poorly constructed cage squarely in the heart of her. No matter if the bars of its cell were smelted with great care, this Other cannot be contained, not really. It is Fire and Brimstone and Blood, and much fear, greed, passion. All things that resist entrapment.
What of her was the Realm's true Delighter? The Realm cannot delight in what it does not know. But it cannot hate what it does not know, either.
The mirror is cruel tonight. Rhaenyra stands, facing herself. She holds her own gaze. Silver hair feathers the skin of her forearms, neck, jaw. Almost like insufferable gnats in the heat.
When the candle's flame flickers it makes her eyes look particularly dark. A delight, indeed.
The heavy iron door creaks open. Rhaenyra turns away from herself, despite knowing already who it shall be. There is no other man who would dare step into her chambers without knocking. No other being, at all.
Daemon's feet make no sound against the stone. He does not look at her when he first enters, but once the door has closed behind him his eyes find her, and do not leave. She feels utterly naked.
"You are to bed early," Rhaenyra greets, turning back to her reflection. She busies herself braiding her hair and attempts to avoid his eyes. No such thing is possible.
"The fog is thick tonight," he says, finally. His voice is the burn of smooth liquor. She watches him settle in a plush chair by the window. His head moves to face the window, and his gaze follows.
"You have flown in the fog before." She watches him now, safe because he is not watching her. But sometimes Rhaenyra is overcome with the feeling that he can see her, wherever she goes. Even if he is not in the room at all. His back to her, he will know if she has twitched. His feet on the other side of the wall, he will know if her breath has stuttered. It is dangerous as it is intoxicating.
He huffs. His hand comes up to hold his chin. "Yes. Perhaps I simply did not feel the need to venture."
The words do not surprise her. There is little about Daemon that could surprise her, anymore. But the surprise is not what makes her heat—it is the tone of his voice, as though he has played the conversation in its entirety behind his eyes and knows, now, all possible outcomes. This is the sense she frequently gets, when she speaks to him.
Rhaenyra's nail grazes the skin of her hand. She is braiding too frantically. She watches a thin pink line fade in, swears she can see it slowly rising.
"My Wife," Daemon drawls, as though the words have been seeped in honey, and they wash over her as such. She spares him a glance in the mirror. He is shadowed but she can see his smile. "You are troubled, tonight."
She shivers. "I am not."
He stands. She buffers a moment. Then, she loosens the braid in entirety, starting over so that she has an excuse to continue the task. It is all useless, of course. But she has learned that Daemon does not enjoy things nearly as much when they are given freely. She supposes she cannot deny an enjoyment of her own, in withholding.
His silence as he approaches forces words from her. She has never been one for silences.
"I am simply tired. And your antics do not aid me in this."
Daemon's face cracks open just slightly, and out pours a grin that feels like a snake's cold scales swirling around sun-bitten skin.
"And what are these antics you speak of?"
He is behind her now. Pale fingers curl over her own, sinking into the hair she has twisted. It pulls a breath from her that sounds regrettably akin to a gasp.
Rhaenyra swallows. In the mirror, she sees him watch the bob of her throat.
"...at dinner. You were acting quite... strange."
How she laments the ease with which he can pull the truth from her. She wishes she possessed the same knife to his neck.
In Daemon's eyes Rhaenyra can see him regard the frailty of her resolve, with coolness that pulls at the heat in her gut. His hand coils tighter around hers, and his other splays so gently against her hip that she does not feel it creeping until it is already there.
"Strange?" The word fans warm against the shell of her ear. "Hm. I did not realize."
At least he does not prod her further on the subject. If she were to tell him the full truth, in its ugly entirety, she fears he would hold it above her for the rest of their years.
His fingers massage gently at her flesh. She can feel the heat of him against her back and struggles not to allow herself to lean towards it.
"You are always rather strange," Rhaenyra says, without thinking much of it. She is surprised to see him pleased by it, so she allows herself to continue. "It is never very clear to me what it is you are thinking."
Daemon takes her hair between two fingers, ushers it over her shoulder and behind her neck with a practiced ease.
"Strange, indeed. For to know your mind is a task unfit for all but I, my girl."
He lays a kiss on her neck like a crack of thunder, miles away. And Rhaenyra thinks of white beaches and water eyes and empty, emerald bottles.
Her hand finds the crown of his head, when he dips his chin into the curve of her neck, lets both his hands slither to the front of her nightgown. His palms are flat against her stomach and his fingers are angled down, down, down, but not yet. It is apart of their game, she knows. And even as something in her chest pains, something set off kilter, she will play.
"And what if you do not know me, either?" Rhaenyra says, and revels in the look in his eyes when he glances up at her, in their reflection. Her other hand comes to rest over his, lacing the fingers ever so slowly. He smiles against her skin, something predatory.
"There must always be one who knows." Goosebumps prickle at her exposed arms. She wonders if he can feel them, see them. "If not your Husband, then who?"
The quiet that stretches is far too long. Rhaenyra does not have an answer because she cannot, for all her efforts, tell him a lie. It is not because she does not want to, out of some vague honor to one's partner to give them unconditional honesty, but because he simply will catch her in whatever falsity she offers him. Perhaps he does know her. Or perhaps he is good at noticing in others what he knows of himself.
When Daemon takes her that night it is different. He is not softer or even rougher, nor does he suddenly move without the finesse of a man well experienced, but it is different. He touches her as though he sees all of her for the very first time, and not as an expected delicacy. He maps her body with his fingers first and then with his tongue, hot enough to melt her flesh, and his eyes do not leave hers for longer than is absolutely required. Worst of all, he says little, a choice that runs contrary to every fiber of the being she knows him to be. Her heart will not abate.
"Daemon," she calls, nails making little moons in the creamy muscle of his back. His body slides against her, heavy breaths muffled in the crook of her neck. She bites her lip hard enough to taste blood. He says nothing.
Warmth is building steadily in the pit of her gut. He pinches her chin between his fingers and pins her there with his mouth, all teeth and spit, and her body rises into his all on its own.
What she has always loved most about lying with him is that it is the only time his skin does not blister her with its strange coolness. In the throes of passion he heats steadily, skin flushing pink under her nimble fingers.
She can feel the heat of his hand, now, releasing its grip on her face, calloused pads of his fingers scratching at the apple of her cheek. He watches her with such concentration it forces a heady sound from her throat, when he pushes his thumb past her lips and onto the waiting mound of her tongue.
When she comes she feels tears prick painfully at her. She feels him still above, let out a guttural noise in her ear, but she is too spent to open her eyes.
In the darkness Rhaenyra feels the bliss of nothing. And then it is disturbed by eyes that reflect a sea of fire, and the careful touch of your hands. The soft tissue of your scar under her gentle fingers. The brush of her lips against your shoulder.
She does not even feel the heat of a tear escape her; not until Daemon's tongue sears it against the flat of her temple.
—————
"What do you think it is like?"
Rhaenyra watched you carefully. You did not look up at her, busying yourself with weaving threads of a throw you had begun just a few days prior. It had always surprised her, the way you seemed to find equal enjoyment in menial tasks such as this, and the thrill of blood and blade. She admired it. She could find no easy enjoyment in either, perhaps because the thrill was not one her father allowed her to indulge.
"I am unsure. I have not really thought of it," you said, flatly. A poorly constructed lie, Rhaenyra knew. To assert that the joining of bodies had never crossed your mind was like asserting you had no soul at all.
"This cannot be true. We are of the same age. We see the same... things."
You looked up at her, then. Your brows were quirked with such curiosity. It sparked endearment in her chest.
"And by things, do you refer to the wandering eyes of the Prince?"
This made her face heat, and it must've flushed the skin red, because you laughed then. It was a more boisterous sound than she knew it to be. She thought nothing of it.
"Do not fluster, Rhaenyra. It is quite normal."
She scoffed, turned away from you. It was her favorite way to make you chase her. "Your mockery of me says quite the opposite."
You set your work to the side, and swiveled in the chair so that your body faced her entirely. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees this, but still does not give you the grace of her gaze. At this time she still enjoyed to make you work for it, because she knew you always would.
"I do not mock you. I only reassure you, your thoughts are not... strange. I am sure he has had some similar."
The words carried a strange bitterness. Rhaenyra turned to you then. You were smiling but there was something passive in your eyes, something subdued.
"You mean to say he is wanting of me, as well?" She did not mean to sound so excited, but could not help, especially when she saw your reaction. It was somehow unreadable and saying many things, all at once.
"I suppose. Though what it is he wants of you, I cannot say."
That struck something inside her, and she turned away from you once more. "You insult me. You think a man could only find worth in me for my position, then?"
Rhaenyra has always secretly enjoyed how she can make you flounder. Even in her peripheral she saw your jaw twitch, your fingers flex.
"It is not your worth I question. It is him. He is volatile, and... unpredictable. I think it is not a wonder of whether or not he would want you, but of why he would. I mean not to insult you. I swear it."
The discussion of Daemon had soured her and she was not sure why. Perhaps she did not enjoy to hear you speak of him. She did not like that there were others on this Earth that would presume to know him, because she herself had much difficulty doing so. And so she found your eyes again, and moved from her chair, to sit on the floor in front of you.
It was not a strange occurrence. Often she found comfort in the steady softness of your touch. But when she leaned her head against the curve of your thigh, and your hand fell into the braided lengths of her hair, the room thickened.
It was not uncomfortable. Perhaps just strange. But at this time Rhaenyra had not yet vowed to herself to cease indulging in strangeness.
"It cannot be that you have never thought of it. Maybe you have never wanted it, with one particular man. But you must have thought of it."
You stared down at her. Your eyes have always captured her so.
"I find little interest in... carnal matters," you began, your voice much softer due to the proximity you now shared. Rhaenyra felt the warmth of your skin through your gown, pressed her cheek to your flesh. "Desire is no stranger to me, but it has never struck me as reason enough."
"So you do want, then. I was beginning to think you had no such passions at all."
Something ran over your face. Your smile trampled it with a quickness.
"How insulting. You truly think me without wants?"
"You cannot blame me. You seldom show it."
You pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear with such care she barely felt it.
"Perhaps my want is too powerful. I must keep it locked away, under bolt and key."
"This sounds a life fit only for the septons. You are no septon."
A silence, then. Your eyes flitted over her face, into her scalp, and then with small alarm to her hand, which had landed upon your ankle. You said nothing to her as she slid it carefully under the fabrics of your dress, up the silky smoothness of your calves, and then atop your thigh. She ceased movement when she felt the edge of the bandage, there, wrapped snugly around the midsection of it.
"Rhaenyra," you said, and she was struck at the odd breathiness of your voice. It made something small rupture in her gut.
"You do not like it when I touch you?" The words came before she had thought of them. They seemed to catch you just as it did her.
You shook your head. Your hand in her hair had stilled.
"I wish to see it. But I can feel it is still mending. Perhaps the sight will frighten me."
You laughed, then, but it was not one of real substance. Her fingers traced the edges of the bandage, under your dress. Your breathing had quickened, and she could see you attempting to conceal it. It was of no use.
"There is... no blood or exposed flesh, anymore. Only a nasty scar."
Rhaenyra hummed to herself. She recalled the moment she had first seen you, that awful day. You had been called to your father's holdings two months prior. At first there had been letters, but when those ceased she felt such dread that she was unable to find rest most nights. She had no way of knowing where you were, who you were with. If you were safe. If you were alive, or dead, bleeding into the ground someplace far where she would never even have the chance to hold your body, however cold, close to hers.
And then you had shown. She had never seen you quite as decrepit. Not because you were disheveled or bloodied, but the look in your eyes was of pure and utter defeat, disappointment, and anger, so much anger that she had at first been afraid to approach.
She had seen your wound, then. Still it had been bandaged but it was fresher than it was now. The sheer size of the bloodstain on those tattered wrappings was enough to fill her head with fluff, make her uneasy on her feet.
"You are quite brave," Rhaenyra said, quietly, against your skin. She was no longer looking at you, and instead at the lump of her hand underneath the heavy fabric of your dress. "I would like to see this nasty scar. It is a marking of your honor."
You said nothing. When she looked back up at you, she was struck by the intensity with which you were already staring. As she caught your eye, your own flickered away.
You shifted, pushing her off of you gently enough that she was not offended by it. Her hand on your thigh fell slowly. Then, you reached down for the edge of your skirts, pulled them up over your leg. Rhaenyra watched each movement carefully.
The wrappings seemed all but new, had it not been for the discoloring of sweat. No blood. This relieved her in ways she did not name, but also caused a strange disappointment that frightened her enough to bury.
You asked her once if she was sure that she wished to see it. She had only nodded and waited with bated breath as you peeled the bandage, slowly, unraveling it as one might a rolled letter they know is from their lover, across the seas.
When all the fabric had fallen, Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat.
"Does it frighten you?" you asked, and though a smile played on your face she could hear the doubt in your voice. She shook her head, quickly.
"Not at all. It is only... the shape. Like a bolt of lightning."
It was smaller than she had thought it would be. Running from right below the space where your leg met your hip, curving inward, ending right on the inside of your thigh. The skin still looked quite tender, as though it might hurt to touch. Rhaenyra raised her finger and waited for you to stop her. She ran it lightly over the raised edge, and you winced, but did not tell her to cease.
"I am hard-bested to believe there is a man alive who would not find it disfiguring. But it is lucky there is no man alive I can imagine myself wanting to allow so close."
You said it as though it was throwaway. But to Rhaenyra this meant much more than you could have imagined. To her, it meant there is no other being that you allow so close as you do her. And there never will be. No matter how they stare. No matter how they ache to touch you.
Rhaenyra leaned forward, toward the heat of your skin. You twitched, almost as though you were attempting to move away, but did nothing of the sort. Her heart would not abate.
She pressed a feather light kiss to the tip of the scar, on the inside of your leg. She wished to linger there and the thought was so strong she abruptly feared it.
"I pray it does not pain you any longer," she whispered, not intending to be so quiet, but suddenly not possessing the voice to be anything else. "And if there is a man so shallow he cannot see the beauty of the thing, he is worthless."
Many years and pains later, the long-healed skin of your scar catches the moonlight. Rhaenyra does not mean to stare, only she cannot stop.
There was a time where the sight of your skin was as familiar to her as her own. But years pass and you cover more and more, in armor and in silence, and so tonight, the vision of you beneath your fabrics is one that manages to dry her mouth.
You do not know she is there, not yet. She feels as though she has stumbled into a moment that does not belong to her. It disquiets her soul. There is no moment of yours, she thinks, quite selfishly, that does not belong to her. As hers to you.
It is a cool night. The breeze is not as aggressive as is typical, and after wandering the castle in hopes she might find you, Rhaenyra ventured outward. Daemon seems to have possessed the same urge. She spotted Caraxes's tail end right as she stepped outside, before he disappeared into the dark clouds.
The path she chose is not one she is unfamiliar with. Oft on evenings where the walls and all their violet eyes suffocate her, she finds safety in the night air, unforgiving as it can be. On one such journey she discovered this tide pool, nestled underneath a formidable arch of rock, shadowed so that the sun himself only reaches it just before he slips beneath the sea—save for the slivers that sneak through cracks.
Of course, you know of it. She has brought you here on a few occasions. You accompany her on her walks most times, partially because you see it your duty, and partially because she has asked you.
Have you come here in hopes that she might find you? The thought itches at the nape of her neck.
You are breathtaking. She has always thought so. You submerge all flesh beneath your shoulders, and you move into a shadow, out of the small slice of moonlight that had caught you.
Rhaenyra steps forward without thinking.
Her foot is not loud when it falls, but she knows you have heard it anyway.
The soft sound of your movement in the water ceases, suddenly. Her breath catches.
She knows you are more than trained to assess, and subsequently dispatch, a threat to your person. An unknown presence is a such. So before you can draw your sword, Rhaenyra steels herself and walks down the path, tripping over herself in haste, to the tide pool's opening.
"It is only me," she speaks, to no one, because you are still concealed in that almost darkness. Perhaps the shape of you is visible, but she cannot be sure if it is you or a trick of the mind. "I apologize for startling you. I was only on a walk, and I..."
"Your Grace?" Your voice trembles, ever so slightly. Water shifts and you slowly make your way toward the tide pool's edge, where she can see you once more. The look on your face is one of pure discomfort and Rhaenyra feels guilt tug at her.
"Have I disturbed you?" The question is not one that must be asked, nor should it have been, but she does so anyway. "I did not mean to. Only I did not think there would be anyone here."
You shake your head, but say not another word. You seem paralyzed, and something inside her recoils at it. She cannot bear the thought that you may feel such a way in her presence. Before she can say as much, as though she would say so at all, you have moved back into the shadow.
"Forgive me, my Queen. I shall return to the Castle."
"No." It pulls from her tongue like it has been stolen. "No, do not. I shall join you."
Rhaenyra moves before you are given the chance to react. She steps into shadow, loosens the tie of her gown and lets it fall like a dead leaf to the sanded ground. There is no sound from you, no word of protest. Perhaps because she has shocked you into silence. Submission. The word appears in her mind like lightning and she stamps out its spark before it can flame.
The water is colder than expected. A sharp intake of breath makes a soft sound from her as she submerges herself. She swears she hears you mirror her but the noise is lost to the wind.
"Your Grace." Your voice is closer now. In the darkness her eyes have adjusted and she can now see the faint image of you, lacking all details but you, still you. "I know this is a place that you hold quite dear. It was inappropriate of me to come here. I apologize."
To come here without her, is what you do not say, but you do not have to say it. Rhaenyra exhales. She shivers under the water's thin sheath.
"Do not. I have shown you this place so that you might find peace here, as well."
You stare at her. Or at least, she thinks so. She cannot see where your eyes are fallen but your body faces hers. You are close enough to touch, if she were to reach with all her arm's length.
"Still, Your Grace. I did not mean to make you share it."
"Share what? My peace?"
You huff something akin to a laugh. It makes a smile on her own face.
"Yes, I suppose so. Your Grace."
"Oh, cease this. You do not have to do it after everything you say. You are far too honorable."
Silence. Rhaenyra dares to inch forward, leaning herself against the stone surrounding the pool. She thinks for a moment you may move an equal distance away, but you remain where you are.
"It is only to respect you. You are the rightful heir to the throne."
An excuse. A lie. Rhaenyra's brows furrow, hands clutching lightly at the jagged rock of the water's edge.
"I always was. But you did not always treat me with such... distance. I am left to wonder what has truly changed."
You move, then. Closer. It makes Rhaenyra's heart flutter as though someone has pumped air right into its ventricles. It is only a little closer. But closer nonetheless. She has learned you well enough to know it rare that a movement of yours be mistake.
"We do not reside in the Keep anymore. There is an air of seriousness to this island that inclines me to address one with their proper title."
It is a peculiar war in her, because even as she enjoys to hear you speak lightly, that is not what she needs from you now. She can see your eyes, now, and does not allow them to leave hers.
"You jest. But I do not."
Waves crash against the beach nearby. A dragon shrieks in the distance.
"I received a raven from my father, this morning," you offer, to sate her. Rhaenyra does not wish to abandon the thread but knows it has already been lost, so she only sighs.
"And what has he written?"
You seem to relax, just slightly. Perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps you are right. There must be a new comfort to be found, here. The old has been left in the Keep.
"He expressed his desire to journey here, to Dragonstone. To reavow his fealty to you... and the Crown Prince. And, to see me. Though I suppose in that order."
"I think not. Your father has always had a deep affection for you."
You hum. "Indeed. But this affection is only known. It cannot be felt. And thus may cease to exist at all."
It strikes her plainly between the brow, though she knows it not a stab meant for her. It comes from you so softly it is likely not a stab at anyone at all, save for your own self. She does not speak, least she reveal too much. Instead, she waits for you.
"It is nearly impossible for any man to show his true feelings, anyhow. It must always be masked with something hard."
Rhaenyra cannot help the laugh that escapes her. Your head snaps in her direction and it only forces another girlish noise from her throat. She covers her mouth with one hand. She can taste the salt from the pool against her smiling lips.
"What is it? You find my musings humorous?"
Your tone is playful enough to make her cheeks burn. "No, no. Well, perhaps."
The water shifts, again. You are close enough that it would take only a breath for her to touch you. She mirrors you, glides backwards, not to escape you but only to be in the moonlight. She hopes you will follow her. She is tired of trying to make you out in the shadows.
You do. When you emerge into the hazy silver she swallows a heavy breath. There is a sheen on your skin that makes her think of you as the water's own reflection.
"Pray tell, Your Grace. What of my words has amused you so?"
"It is only... you accuse them of the same folly you yourself are guilty of."
Your silence almost makes Rhaenyra regret her honesty. But she is accustomed to your quiet and so finds it in herself to withstand.
And then, you laugh. But it is not one of true joy. The chill of the water seeps into her bones and makes them tremble. Because it is not the laugh of yours that she has always known—it is the laugh of another. A huff that is cruel in its mocking cadence. Yet it flickers that same spark in her gut, and she cannot help but be shamed for it.
"And you, my Queen. I presume you find yourself innocent of this?"
You are now close enough for her to feel your breath. Feel it, she does, and smell it, too. The wilted rose of liquor on your lips. The soft intensity of your eyes, unfettered by the haze that has set over your mind.
If this is how she must have you from now on, she can scarcely complain. But she has never known you one to indulge so wantonly. You have always been eerily controlled.
"You are drinking more lately." Rhaenyra's voice is feather light.
Something flickers over your face, something like embarrassment, or compunction. It is gone as soon as it comes and in its place a solemn smile that makes Rhaenyra yearn for the icy depths below.
It is your hand that finds her, first. Your skin is soft as the water itself.
Your touch reminds her of sitting beneath her tree in the Keep, of those swollen raindrops that caught on leaves and splashed cold against her cheek. Your thumb swipes across her jaw with equal languor.
"Do not let it concern you," you say, just above a whisper. Your eyes feel like seafoam brushing over the heated skin of her face.
Rhaenyra lies her hand on your waist, underneath the tide. The slide of yours against her back makes her gasp, softly. Your gaze flutters down to her parted mouth, and Rhaenyra feels quite suddenly that this, this is what she has felt missing, these past months. This is the piece of her gone that has mad the mirror so sour.
And it did not disappear with your departure from King's Landing. She had you like this many times, when Laenor wandered and the hall were silent.
So she knew, truly, why these moments with you had been fettered. She knew why you pulled from her and into drink, into silence. It was better not to know. Lest she drown in it.
"But it shall," she breathes, all but into your mouth. "I cannot help it."
Your lips brush against hers, so lightly it could have been a mistake. But you do not make mistakes, not ones of this magnitude.
It is not the first time and it is not the last. Yet each time you let her this close she feels it must be.
"And I cannot."
Rhaenyra furrows her brows. Then, she understands. She only watches you with soft eyes when you pull away from her.
It is not like the sting of something stuck. It feels like what it is. Something drifting off into the tide; and the tide will always carry its own home.
"It is late. We must return to the castle. Lest the prince think you in danger."
It is said with some jest, and it disturbs the intensity of the moment enough for Rhaenyra to laugh. She is grateful for it.
"And what danger might that be? There are hardly any rogues on this dreary island."
Your smile softens. "One never knows, with you. You are ever so fond of finding danger where it is not."
Rhaenyra splashes you. It is childish, and she feels foolish the moment she does so.
The sound that leaves you is girlish and young. You laugh properly. It settles deeply inside her.
And there is nothing more to say of it.
You both rise from the pool, and she does her utmost not to glance at your naked form as she dresses herself once more. And as you have done many a time, you walk side by side to the castle, and think nothing of the current between you.
A lifetime spent at Rhaenyra Targaryen's side has taught you many things. Namely, how to love her, without ever saying so.
The one thing it has not taught you is what to do when Daemon Targaryen begins to pick at the spaces between your armor. When he notices what aches beneath. Notices that you ache at all.
Caught in the fatal dance of two burning dragons, the warrior must decide. Surrender to the flame, or bare her teeth and do her worst.
pairings: rhaenyra targaryen x reader, daemon targaryen x reader, rhaenyra targaryen x daemon targaryen, rhaenyra targaryen x reader x daemon targaryen
wc: 5.1k
series tags: angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, unrequited (not actually unrequited) love, eventual smut
notes:
song inspo: wandering II by eydís evensen, bylur by eydís evensen
It is not a very good day for a swim.
The sticky weight in the air draws out the blood-sucking bugs and, second only to the beckoning of flesh, the water calls to them loudest.
That is what you tell yourself when you refuse Rhaenyra's request to visit the white sands off the coast of the castle, one especially warm morning in the Keep, when heat awakens you before even the light of the sun.
That is what you tell her, though you know before it leaves your mouth that you will indeed be foiled. You had by then grown equipped to hold your own against threats of varying severity—but, you had not yet learned to say no to her.
You would not for a long time. Even then you would never truly mean it.
"Whether or not you accompany me, I am going. And I won't be telling the guards, or my father. If something happens to me, you will be entirely to blame," she said, as petulant a whine you ever heard, masquerading as a ploy for guilt.
You smiled. You had finished braiding her hair ages ago, and now busied yourself tidying her vanity. Your back was to her; she sat on her bed. You could not yet decipher whether the theatrical manner in which she fanned herself was performance, or natural dramatics.
"I scarcely believe you could get as far as the castle gates without anyone seeing you. But please, do try."
Rhaenyra huffed. You suppressed a laugh, because you knew she possessed quite the sensitivity when she felt made fun of.
"Bugs is not a sufficient excuse. You are coming," she tried, and you turned to see her staring at you. She is like a child, you thought, who does not know any better than to be angry when disappointed.
"If I get bitten severely, you will have to take care of me," you finally said, because the longer she watched you expectantly the more your skin felt as though it was on too tightly.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. A great inconvenience, you were sure. You had noticed many times how much she seemed to enjoy doting over you when you fell ill, or injured yourself.
If you mentioned it she would make that same face of confused vexation, like she was unsure of what she felt, or did not know at all. You brought it up as much as could be dismissed as simple teasing.
"You will not."
"Very well. But you will take care of me if I do."
"Goodness. Yes, of course I will. Shall we go or not?"
She said it as though simply uttering the words was a hassle beyond all else. But she smiled, and you could not help but smile back.
You dressed in the lightest clothing you possessed and went out into the garden. Past the sickly sweet flora and the trickling stone fountain, a path to the beach had been paved.
The sand was white and tickled the soles of your feet. Rhaenyra beamed under the sun. The paleness of her features caught its rays until she seemed to glow.
You reminded her to apply the cream the maesters gave her to prevent burns. You had spent many a night soothing the red heat that bloomed across her skin when the sun kissed her too hard.
She did so but applied such a meager amount she may as well have neglected it entirely. You refused to hound her even as you could taste the instinct on your tongue.
"Do you see that?" Rhaenyra said, as she led you closer to the water, across the seashells that pricked you only hard enough to feel their shape.
"See what?"
She turned to you with a wicked grin. Your stomach tied itself in a knot you had felt before. Many, many times.
"There are no bugs."
You blinked at her a moment, before laughing. You did not mean to laugh so softly but it came out as such. Something gleamed in her eyes then.
"You are ridiculous."
"And you are proven wrong."
Rhaenyra refused to go into the water without you. It took you a bit longer than usual to succumb to her whining that day. You wanted to see how long it would take her to cease her poorly worn pretense of indifference and simply tell you that she wanted you beside her.
The moment never came.
The water was colder than you expected. You swam in linen chemises; Rhaenyra had asked why you could not simply go in the nude, which you had responded to with an uncharacteristic primness.
Rhaenyra submerged herself first, from feet to chest. You followed in, and tried not to look at her too carefully. She watched you with a mischief that you knew quite well.
"Do not wade further," you warned, once you were beside her. You shivered, feeling the fabric of her gown drifting in the sea beneath, weightless. It kissed your kicking legs.
"Why not?" Rhaenyra pouted, though her eyes reflected blithe energy not atypical of her reaction to being advised against some deed.
Demanding she does do something was, reversely, the best way to ensure she did not. You had forgotten that, in the blistering heat. Or perhaps in her laughing eyes.
"It is dangerous. I am a fine swimmer but the sea is no place for uncertainty."
Rhaenyra stared hard at you. Then she flicked her hand across the ebbing ocean surface, splashing your face with salt. You sputtered, your ears heating—the tinkling of her laughter only made it worse.
"Not to worry, my sweet. I too am a fine swimmer, and I am quite certain of that fact."
You wanted to be angry with her. How dare she mock you? She would be sorry when the sea caught her in its snare, carried her out into the void from which even a dragon cannot return. She would be sorry when her skin peeled and stung with the sun's unyielding slap.
But you looked at her, and her eyes sparkled like amethyst.
And you could not stop your own from falling to her neck, to the small sliver of skin that peeked on her chest—where the linen of the chemise was thinning, quickly. As though the ocean was eating its essence, and the ocean was quite hungry.
You splashed her back, with more force than was necessary. But no more than you had intended.
More than is necessary, more than is right. But no more than what you meant. No more than the truth.
But perhaps the truth is too large a weapon to bear. You were a dreadfully honest child and you have grown, without realizing, into a remarkably deceitful woman.
Perhaps because a lie ends quietly.
There are many words you can imagine one might use to describe you, and quiet is among the more truthful of them. If one were to imply the opposite you think you might take offense. The quiet in you is built, fortified, tended with care and meticulous devotion.
But it has grown a more painful companion in the past years.
Even as you attempt to ignore this, you wake with a heaviness on your chest that does not dissipate.
Sometimes you can find it in the bottom of a goblet, underneath a lake of wine. Sometimes in the halls, behind the cold dragon eyes watching you from every stiff painting.
And sometimes you can find it in the hay that erupts from the poor, unfortunate bale you have chosen as your target. Its guts scattered across the training yard.
Sweat pours from you so fiercely you can hardly stand the feeling of cloth on your skin. The sun is shielded in a veil of cloud, but the humidity is heavy as one can bear before they must crumple under its weight.
A lesser man may have fallen already. But you are no man.
Time tends to lose its pull on you here. You enter always facing some level of disquiet, and leave not unburdened, but relieved enough to press on.
You have been training more and more as of late. The sea mist smells like blood, the air tastes like war. Your reflection looks ready for neither.
Rhaenyra insists it will not come to that. You know she hears the whispers, the all-but royally authorized dismemberment of her sons'—and thus her own—legitimacy. You do not think she knows how deeply the rot has spread, and you will not be the one to tell her.
And now, there is the issue of Laenor's very particularly timed demise.
And now, there is the issue of the Prince.
The King. Excuse you.
The blade's handle is slick in your palm. You grip it so hard your knuckles pale, trying to keep it secure. Trying to tense your arm so you can focus on that, and not the way your head pounds.
My sweet.
You drive the edge of the blade forward with a small cry. It pierces your makeshift dummy—stringy guts of horsefeed spill from the puncture. A cruel ending, for such an innocent thing.
"You train to fight a threat that does not move."
A wave of ice, followed by an equal blistering, falls over you.
The weight of your weapon grows tenfold. You ache to rest.
But you would rather hang than show him your exhaustion. He would hold it over you with such gleeful vigor you may end up thrown in a cell for bleeding the King.
"Your Grace," you say. The phrase feels odd on your lips.
You know to use his title of Prince, which one might argue the more accurate, is to incur his obnoxious indignation. But try as you have you cannot, for the life of you, call him King. Not to his face.
Your back is to him, because you know how he likes to walk in circles. He will intercept your gaze on his own, and you have no desire to expedite it.
You hear his traveling footsteps. They are lighter than usual.
When Daemon makes his way into your line of sight, you see why. He is not dressed as is typical and it sparks confusion in you long enough for him to notice. The smug smile he wears makes you sick.
"Have you been here long?" he says, finally, stalking through the yard like a beast who has been told he is human, and thus mistakes the world for his inheritance.
You ache to tell him so. Your duty will not allow it.
"Never mind that. I can discern the answer by your state. You look quite terrible."
You toss your blade to the ground. It clatters far loudly than you expected it to, and you swear Daemon laughs. It is like the scratching of a thousand strays upon the doors of a safe, warm home.
"Did you require me for something, Your Grace?" Your voice sounds even to you but the look on his face tells you your perception is warped.
Daemon pauses in his steps. Hands folded behind his back, he appraises you. Studies you with such scrutiny your mouth begins to dry up.
He has the same stare as Rhaenyra. Only his feels far more malevolent. Perhaps it is because you are wired to think of him in this way. Or perhaps you are wired only to see Rhaenyra's as different.
Then he laughs, again. Your ability to remain stoic is dissolving quickly in the acid of your irritation.
"You are utterly spent, and you have been sweating over, what? A thing? It cannot even fight back."
Your fists flex at your sides.
"I am more than capable of fighting something that can fight back. Your Grace."
A spark in your gut flickers at the look that passes over Daemon's eyes. Gone before you can make sense of it.
He has always been quick to reveal, purposeful in what he gives and even more in what he does not. What surfaces is smothered quicker still.
But something tells you the chance to see it properly would not make it any less obscured.
"Mm. Yes. I believe you must be."
How is it that he always knows what to say, to make you burn so? Flame festers in your bones that tremble in their effort to remain still.
Flame tells you to lift your sword and drive it straight through his pretty head.
Flame tells you to fall to your knees and beg Daemon to bleed you.
You can do nothing but stare at him. If you open your mouth you will curse him so severely you will both be pulled right into the Seven Hells.
You often do not suffer contests of silence. You cannot suffer something which you know you will win. Rhaenyra loses to you in very little but in that she is the frequent casualty.
"If that is all, Your Grace—"
"Why do you call me that?"
The question almost makes you stumble. You ache to busy yourself with something, so your body might rid itself of this horrible, horrible feeling.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace?"
Daemon shakes his head, resumes his slow, dragging circle. He makes irregular loops in front of the weapon's rack.
He is like a creature who will drown if it does not keep swimming. At least, one that thinks so.
"You do not refer to Rhaenyra that way. It is always My Queen. My lady. But never Your Grace." His voice moves as he does, cold molasses. A sickle of ice digs into your side at the mocking smile he now dons.
You reach into your flesh, dig it out, wield it toward him.
"I suppose I am unsure what else to call you. Your Grace."
At that Daemon falters. You want to laugh at him but it feels like a sharp burn in your chest.
He has always been the same.
When you met him for the first time you got the odd and terrifying sensation that he was not fully a man. There is something to be said about all Targaryens being so, but not as you thought Daemon was. You thought him cruel and soulless and lacking of any true moral, personal or otherwise.
You saw through his scheming, his pretending to guide and nurture Rhaenyra. Through, to his pitiful desire for power.
Not just the throne. Power over all. Power especially over those who had power over him.
Even his own brother. Even Rhaenyra.
And perhaps, now, even you.
You watch his face and are struck by how deeply the simple jab seems to pierce him. It is not offense, though, or even hurt—it is anger. You cannot deny, it frightens you.
Because you have long learned, it is not that he is less than human, more than man. He is something far worse.
A man who thinks himself a dragon, and buries all parts of himself that run the contrary. All the things that make him a man. Just a man, like any other.
You are well versed in the practice.
"If you are unclear," Daemon finally says, almost a hiss. Serpentine eyes fix you to stone. "Perhaps I should show you. I assure you, I fight back."
The silence pierces your eardrums. Your breath is hot when you exhale and the inhale is no better. Your tunic sticks uncomfortably to your side. Despite having cleaned your teeth you can taste last night's wine still on your tongue.
"Your Grace. I would not want to injure you."
You flinch at Daemon's laugh, then—it is not the one he has shown you thus far, which had been like the deep mocking hum of a predator playing with his meal.
It is something ominous, the thunder before lighting cracks like a trained whip through the sky.
Something wild, trained but not subdued, doused in red, silver, black.
He raises nimble fingers to the buttons of his over-shirt. You force yourself not to look away, show weakness. He is searching too readily for it.
"You think yourself capable of it?"
He tosses it to the ground. Underneath a tunic thin as yours, already soaked in sweat from the simple act of leaving the castle walls. You refuse to let your gaze wander.
Daemon steadies himself into a stance you know well. He slides his foot behind him, cages his hands at his front.
"Well? Please. I do truly encourage you to try, my dear."
You shiver. His voice oozes darkness.
You set your jaw. "I cannot, Your Grace."
He steps toward you. Panic surges in your chest. You are sure he can see it on your face.
When he does not stop—even though he is moving so slowly you could make it to the door before he reached you—you are forced to take a defensive stance. You are more frightened than you have been in months. Something is churning hot in the pit of your gut.
Daemon takes first move.
His hand swipes for you. You bend swiftly backward. You feel the lash of the air at his movement.
Again, he advances. Another strike, aimed at your stomach. It just grazes your flesh before you've side-stepped it.
He has never tried to hurt you before. He has never indicated that he wanted to.
Yet—it feels as though you have been waiting entire lifetimes for this moment.
So, you let your arm swing. Your shoulders protest the overexertion but you push through it, as you do all things.
Daemon jumps away like a sprite, to whom this is all a silly game. But the look on his face is not of one who plays. Maybe, not of one who knows he plays.
Again. You graze the very blunt of his chin but he has moved too quickly. Your breath pants against your lips.
"You must try harder than that." The very sound of his voice makes your bones tremble.
He moves for you. You pivot, and your foot collides with the meat of his thigh, all your force behind it. It is not all that impressive a hit to land, but even as you want to wring his throat you know you cannot truly harm him without consequences.
He winces, and it only fuels your ire because you know he is pretending. The smile that follows confirms your assessment.
"If this is how you intend to injure me, you will be glad to hear your fears are unfounded."
Silence. The incessant drumming of your heart is so loud it makes your ears throb. You can hear little else.
Daemon rushes forward, and when his hand swipes for your throat you swivel, but this time you do not let the moment slide by. You wrap your fingers around the wrist of his still-extended arm and wrench him forward.
His face is close to yours when the brief moment of surprise hits him. So close that you can feel his breath, just as hot as yours. You swear you may hear his heartbeat, too. See it in the pulsing of his blown pupils.
You hook your foot around his ankle, and sweep it forward.
The world tilts. You revel in the little gasp that leaves him when you both tumble to the ground.
You pin his arm with your knee. Your forearm hovers above his throat. It is the little restraint you still possess that allows it to do so.
For a moment there is a stillness that tastes like clotted blood. Ancient, organic. Visceral.
And then Daemon's free arm is cleaving toward you.
His palm smacks hard against your cheek, slapping a sharp crack into the cartilage of your ear. You expected the duller pain of a punch and the sting startles you—gives him a moment to use his leverage, push you by your face off of him and onto your side.
He is on you before you can even register the impact echoing in your shoulder.
You try to turn your head but he stops you. Humiliates you. Shoves his hand right into the reddening imprint of it, digs his fingers into your skin, his thumb into the divet of your chin, pointer dangerously close to your eye.
You have never hated someone so much.
"Ah," Daemon exhales, barely a sound, more like an electric charge. "There you are."
It fizzles through your skin when you struggle against him, twisting in your flesh the longer you feel him so heavy atop you. His thumb presses harder, higher, the tip of it brushing against your bottom lip.
You hate him.
You jerk violently. You do not know whether it is that or the shine of loathing in your eyes, but Daemon's grip slips—only for a moment, but it is enough.
You take his thumb into your mouth and bite.
What does a dragon taste like? Bitter. Salt. Metal.
And something else.
Daemon twitches, once, when your teeth first sink into his flesh. And then he is very, very still. So still you fear you may have stopped time entirely and are cursed to remain in this moment forever, trapped underneath him.
But then you see him.
See his chest rise, fall. See him staring down at you not with anger, or even amusement. Just watching. Waiting.
The weight of his thumb between your teeth becomes unbearable. The world narrows to the impossible fact of it.
You release him.
Daemon's hand remains against you, and you become most aware of its warmth on your throat. You cannot tell if it is your own pulse you feel or the thrumming of his against his wrist.
"Get off me."
It comes out cold and petulant but too shaken, too soft, to be childish.
For one terrible, lovely moment, you fear he will refuse. Something shudders behind Daemon's narrow eyes.
It vanishes. He removes his hand from you. He stands too slowly, as though each part of his body moves on its own, slightly delayed clock. His gaze never leaves yours. Even when he is at full height, towering above you.
You can feel the awful wetness of Daemon's blood smeared against your lip. You want to lick it. You cannot move. Neither, it seems, can he.
He steps away. You sit up so quickly your head spins. He gathers his overshirt in a ball from the floor. His gaze is trained ahead.
Then he is gone.
——
A river that rushes at her from all directions. A moon that glows crimson in a sky of shadow. A wingless creature flies off a cliff and barrels to a gruesome death, pierced by the sharp shale below.
Rhaenyra does not often dream, but this past night she has dreamt vividly. Perhaps it is the early hour that she finally found rest. The warmth of the sun seeping into her mind, heating thoughts to nightmares.
Daemon was not there when she woke. It was no real cause for concern—she awoke when half the day had passed. Still, the empty space made her skin crawl.
He was far too observant a man. She was quite used to their kind being oblivious.
She did not see him until supper.
She did not see you until supper. She spent the day thinking of close to nothing but your face, when you had begged her to go—the first time you had ever done something of the sort.
Burdensome guilt swirled in her gut when she thought of it that way. Because for her to know so, it meant she had seen moments where you may have wished to, may have burned in her presence, ached for the cool relief of solitude. But she had thought you would never say it. And for her that had been enough to dismiss the thing in its entirety.
Selfish, selfish girl. You have never made her feel selfish before. Always indulging her every whim, even when you pretend to fight it. Always there to hold her when her impulses drove her to pain. Physical or otherwise.
When Rhaenyra sits at the dining table this evening, she can look at Daemon and only think of that night, all those years ago. When he had left her in the dark streets of Flea Bottom, discarded her like a common whore.
And who was it that she ran to? You, of course. You, frantic when you opened your chamber door to see her standing there—where have you been? you'd said, eyes shining as though you were on the verge of shedding tears.
She had never before felt such tangible devotion. It struck her hard in the midsection and she had only collapsed into you, and cried, cried.
Daemon is lost in thought this evening. As he is most.
Her three sons contrast him so it almost makes her laugh. Lucerys knows better but he plays with his food. His older brother does not encourage it verbally but cannot help the smile. Joffrey is oblivious and focuses only on his meal. Always the hungry boy.
How she loves her children. You had never been one for them. As girls Rhaenyra would speak of having a family, how lovely a mother she might make—even though this was never her only goal, she did not deny the desire.
"I do not wish to tear my body open for someone who would sooner kill me and save a creature they have never met."
Rhaenyra had taken some offense to that, still at the age where anything that could remind her of her mother turned her sour. She remembers, because she remembers the look on your face when you noticed.
She spoke faster than you could address it. She knew her anger would feel childish the moment you did.
"You speak as if the matter is settled."
Your face turned quite sheepish at that. It was not the words, but her tone—all the cool regality of a dragon princess never having been denied a thing.
She found some unspeakable joy in disquieting you. Nothing too harmful. Just enough to see you squirm in your iron suit.
"I apologize, my lady. I only meant I have not yet met a man I would undertake such a... commitment for." Oh, you diplomat.
It has always been impossible to be angry with you and still feel rational.
Rhaenyra had only studied you, and then turned with a huff. "Do not call me that. You never do."
"I'm sorry. Rhaenyra."
A smile tugged at her lips. Still she did not look at you.
She was afraid to.
Tonight is no different. You stand at the far end of the room as you always do. Sword sheathed, stance so rigid it is almost easy to forget you are there at all.
But to say she could be anything close to doing so is a falsity. It is more accurate to say that she tries.
"May we be dismissed, mother?"
Rhaenyra's eyes focus once more. Four sets of eyes are trained upon her. Three of youthful curiosity and eager devotion, and one of something she cannot name.
It is rare she can really discern Daemon's looks, anyhow. Whatever it is, it makes her exposed skin feel quite cold.
The plates are empty—all except hers. Her appetite is weak.
"Yes, my sweet boys. Go on." She musters warmth into her smile. It is quite easy to do for them, even in the hardest of times. The three children kiss her and wander off down the hall, followed by their appointed guards.
And now it is just the two of you. The two of them. The three of you.
The silence is heavy. It is strange. Rhaenyra can feel the weight is not only upon her shoulders.
You are utterly still but somehow remain a moving force that rushes ever forward. And across the table, Daemon's eyes will not leave her.
"Is dinner not to your liking, wife?" he asks, finally. She cannot tell whether she is relieved that he's spoken.
Rhaenyra clears her throat. "It is not that. I simply find I am not very hungry today."
The corner of Daemon's lip curves up, slightly.
It does not feel as mocking as it usually does. More often than not there is always something humiliating about his smile but it is typically paired with a tenderness that makes the burn almost comforting.
He shifts, just barely. In the corner of Rhaenyra's vision she sees you do the same, perhaps a twitch, but she knows you are not common to those.
"Mayhaps you are with child." Daemon's voice is scornful in a way the topic of conversation does not deserve.
"It would only make sense. You have always possessed remarkable timing."
You do move, then. It is small still, but it is clear.
And Daemon's smile becomes something just below a grin. And suddenly, Rhaenyra realizes it is not her who he really speaks to.
Her eyes fall on you before she can stop herself and when she looks back to Daemon his own seem all but black.
"It would indeed be a lovely time for it. But unfortunately, I began my bleeding a few nights ago. Perhaps that is the reason for my lack of hunger as well."
Some part of what she has said makes him laugh. Daemon's laughter is a dangerous thing because more often than not, the source of it is far from humorous.
You shift again. It is minute, again; she sees it, again.
Daemon dips his thumb into his goblet of wine. He makes a show of it, holding her eyes as he swirls it slowly. When he lifts the skin is stained a deep, thick red.
"Unfortunate indeed."
He brings the thumb to his mouth. Rhaenyra watches a little droplet make a streak down his pale chin. Her stomach grows hot. She is entirely lost in something she was never meant to understand.
Or perhaps, she was. Just not entirely.
"If you will excuse me, husband. I must retire early tonight."
Rhaenyra stands before he can say another word. She does not know what he would've said, really—she has never been able to predict him. As if to prove her right, he does not attempt to say anything at all.
The closer she gets to you, the more she can see your face. Your ability to maintain composure has been your most steadfast trait in all the time she has known you, but it seems it is fleeing you as of late.
Her chest feels as though someone is holding their sharpened blade just inches from the flesh.
She passes you by, and exits.
The corridor beyond is no relief. The suffocation will not leave.
pairings: rhaenyra targaryen x reader, daemon targaryen x reader, rhaenyra targaryen x daemon targaryen, rhaenyra targaryen x reader x daemon targaryen
wc: 4.3k
series tags: angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, unrequited (not actually unrequited) love, eventual smut
notes: hiiiii it's been a while lol. i've been super obsessed with hotd (particularly with rhaenyra as both a character and eye candy) and since the third season comes out soon i was inspired to write this... this will be a heavy slow burn and there will be a good amount of smut littered throughout so be on the lookout for that heh. enjoy the yearning... </3
song inspo: wayward sisters by abel korzeniowski, a sparrow alighted upon our shoulder by jóhann jóhannsonn
It is in the late hours that she is finally able to seek you.
She has been without you all day; yet, with you all the same. You sat beside her at the long table, as you always did; you ate with the rest in the grand hall, as you always did. Stern faced, in that discomforting way she knows to spell turmoil in the confines of your velvet heart. Your eyes set in a stone, the line of your mouth hard.
That is a face she learned from you.
"To ward wayward men from trying their hand," you'd explained, when she had thought to ask you of its origin. In the Keep it was not strange for one to wear such a dreary expression—but, it was strange for you, because she knew you. And she did not know you to be serious.
Strands of hair tickled Rhaenyra's neck. Your fingers were so feather light in their ministrations that she could hardly feel them on her scalp. In the mirror she could see you were smiling. As was typical, her own smile pinched at the corners of her mouth.
"I don't see how making yourself seem so serious will stop them. One would think it might only foster more intrigue," she'd countered, after a heady silence had passed.
"Most men do not like things that require effort. If you carry yourself as though it will cost them to court you, oftentimes they will drift to something... easier."
Your fingers snagged on a knot as you laced the velvet white into a braid. You apologized but Rhaenyra did not acknowledge it. She liked when she could feel you tugging.
A silence, again. Rhaenyra watched you carefully until you met her eyes. She felt a heat in her gut that tore her gaze from you, forced her to stare into her own eyes instead.
"The men I know seem only to like things when they require the utmost effort."
You smiled harder at that.
"That is because the men you know are Targaryen."
She did not ask you then the question on the tip of her tongue, though it rolled in her mind ceaselessly after that like loose marbles, each time she saw your face turn to stone.
A dragon must conquer all things, and to spend a life conquering only those who surrender willingly is to squander it. The more difficult something seems the more the dragon will desire it. Time and time again, desire and its unassailable pull have proven the most destructive of Targaryen foil.
But Targaryen, Velarion, Strong; men are all the same. They speak of duty, legacy, blood. Yet in the end all they seem to desire is someone pliable—someone to obey without asking, to understand without speaking, to forgive when it is not deserved. Someone to bend in all the ways they cannot.
They cannot accept that the world and its many gods are what govern the people, even the men. Especially the men. If they cannot control themselves they must control someone else.
But you will not be controlled. Rhaenyra knows this, because she too refuses it. To be confined, restricted, consumed. All the parts of yourself to be signed away and eaten by someone that will love you only as much as you can make them feel valuable. Your body sold to another who sees its beauty only as much as it can serve.
This is what you have told her; this is what she herself has come to know.
But why do you wear that face, tonight? Why have you worn that face, for days on end, a shadow skulking through Dragonstone's halls as though your very soul has withered away and all that remains is sternness, serious, stone?
And you refuse to speak to her. Not disrespectfully, you would never dare—but you do not speak to her like you always have. Like a sister. A friend. A part of her very being. You speak to her like she is your queen and you her subordinate and that is all that exists between you.
It pains her so fiercely she can barely sleep at night.
So, she seeks you. It is pitch black beyond the iron barred windows when she glides down the hall. Candles alight in their rusting sconces, flames flickering in the gust of her passing.
Daemon did not notice when she slipped out of bed. She watched his face a moment before she did so. In his sleep he looked quite elfish. His chest rose and fell with a peace that would surely dissipate with the morning dew.
Affection warmed in her chest. She prayed he would not stir before she returned and felt a cold squall quell the heat.
When he returned to King's Landing all those years ago, you had been girls—old enough to want, to yearn, but alas, still girls. She remembers reading with you in the gardens, how he would stand just out of your view and just barely in hers, how he would watch you both with a look in his eyes that made her body hot in anger and something else.
And then, when you would break your comfortable silence to remark on something you'd read—only then would he broach your space. She remembers how she hated that, how she would turn to ice when she caught him looking at you.
She would see him fix his awful gaze upon you, looking down at you, burning you with his eyes; she would see you steel your face, and see him smile that deadly smile in return. Her chest would light ablaze.
This question she had burned to ask you, that she toiled over for years until she realized there was no true answer: how to ward a Targaryen man, when he will only want you more for your warding?
If desire is a dragon's path to death, to be the object of said desire leads you somewhere far worse than that.
A dragon is steadfast in its inferno. Marching inexorably toward the object of its arduous longing. A dragon does not surrender until it is lying in the dirt, a hero's death, a warrior's death. Perhaps not even then.
Dragons are creatures of myth but creatures nonetheless, and all creatures possess an evolutionary drive. The thing that magnetizes them in one direction even when the mind does not register the pull.
Two dragons circle each other in a mating dance, singeing their scales until the sharp edges are just worn enough to collide without fatality. Consuming one another in their unyielding flames.
But Rhaenyra has never wanted to be consumed. And so she peeled herself from Daemon's cold embrace, and now she is at your door.
There are no guards by your chambers. You insisted, despite the panic it instills in her. She knows you are more than able to protect yourself but the thought of you having to do so makes her almost manic. She tries not think of it often.
When she had been betrothed to Laenor—before he had been burned to ashes in the sick mating dance—she slept alone. She had not minded, most nights.
But some nights it was cold. Some nights she listened to the endless drawl of the sea and thought of her father, of the crown that would one day be hers, of the girl she had once been. Of the queen, who had once been a girl with her.
And then she thought of you. You had been girls together, too. But it was always quite different with you than it was with Alicent. Alicent was her dear friend and sister in many of the same ways that you were, but there were parts of Rhaenyra that were too dark, too intense, too much, for the girl she could not help see as terribly soft.
But these were parts that you were able to hold with care. You had shadows of your own. You were not soft.
You could be. You were, sometimes. But only for her.
On those nights, Rhaenyra would ask for you. You braided her hair for bed as you always did—she had serving girls for that now, but you always insisted you were the only one who could do it correctly, and she would not dare protest your touch.
And then she asked if you might stay with her, tonight. Just until she fell asleep. The castle is far too big, she would say, with a sheepish smile she could tell you knew a falsity. And where is your husband? you would ask, with a smile she knew was meant to tease her for being unable to voice the truth. It never failed to make her cheeks warm.
The guards would say nothing. You have known each other all your life. What is it for you to hold one another? What is it for her to watch you while the dawn slips through the blinds, settles upon your cheekbones with a gentleness that scorches her so?
What is it for her to burn, for you? What is it for her to burn at all? It is only in the dragon's nature to do so.
Rhaenyra knocks.
A dreadful few moments pass. The longer she waits, the faster pinpricks of shame and embarrassment crawl up her spine. A thin line of light spills from beneath your door, so she knows you must be awake—unless you've fallen asleep with the candle still burning, something she knows you to have done in the past.
You open the door. She is expecting it but still her nerves coil into a tightly wound pit, settling heavy in her gut.
"My queen," you say, surprised. The shock has taken away whatever time you might've had to force that awful stone over your eyes and Rhaenyra smiles because for the first time in days, she is greeted by the sight of you.
"Were you asleep?"
You furrow your brows, shake your head. She had been too encapsulated by your face to notice the rest of you, but now she sees that you are still dressed in your underclothes for the day; a loose tunic and pants that end just below your knees.
You smell like ash and sweat and the slight bitterness of alcohol. Beneath it that familiar sweetness, which seemed to always cling to you despite whatever else the day had left upon your skin.
"Is—is everything alright?" you finally ask, your hand still on the arch of the doorway. She peers behind you and sees your fireplace alight, though dying—an empty bottle lying discarded, one open and upright beside it.
The sight makes her smile falter. You notice where her eyes have gone and her chest tightens at your hardening face.
"I could not sleep," she confesses. Your eyes flicker with something like concern, worry. She wonders if it is more difficult for you to keep up the act of indifference with the burn of liquor in your veins. She wonders if you will invite her in.
"And what of the prince?" You say it as though it requires much effort. It pulls on the pit in her gut. She cannot fight the way her expression trembles and she knows you have never been able to fight the urge to comfort her.
The knowledge has always made something ugly twist in her chest. But yet she cannot hide it now. It is simply too late an hour for pretense.
"He is asleep," Rhaenyra says, simply. Her voice carries a slight watery quality and she watches it rush against your stone, threatening to crack.
"He sleeps while his queen cannot?"
You smile. It is bitter but makes Rhaenyra warm, so warm.
She smiles back.
"Yes, I suppose he does."
You stare at her, into her eyes. Your gaze has always been quite disarming.
Your room smells like you. The smell of burning wood is far more potent the closer she gets to the fireplace. It is a pleasant smell that has always reminded her of you.
She stands in front of the flame. It crackles, mockingly. Her back is to you but she can feel your stare imprinted in the flesh of her back.
"It is a late hour for drinking." Rhaenyra says it before she can stop herself. Her heart pumps so hard she can hear the blood throbbing in her veins.
Behind her, the sound of the door closing, softly. Movement, slow. She remains in place. The heat of the fire blooms on her skin.
"It is a late hour for the queen to be roaming the castle alone."
"Roaming implies that I did not know where I was going."
"Did you?"
She turns. You're sitting in your armchair now, only a few feet behind her. You're reaching for the half-empty bottle on the floor. The look you're giving her is unnervingly naked and she falters in her attempts to maintain a cool facade. You have always been much better at that than her.
"Yes." Rhaenyra clears her throat. You take a long sip but your gaze does not leave her. The mocking of the flames seems to reflect in your eyes.
Silence. It is your most esteemed device of torture.
"You meant to come here, then?"
Her cheeks warm despite the answer being quite obvious. She scoffs.
"Is it so strange that I would come to you?"
You hold her eyes so long she is tempted to look away, but her pride will not allow it. You are drunk—she can see it now, in the lazy splay of your legs, the uncharacteristic narrow of your eyes. The flutter in her stomach rises and falls with each breath.
"I suppose not," you say, finally. Far too soft.
Relief and something that aches flood her when you abandon her gaze.
She steps to the side, in the direction you are now looking. She does so without thinking, curses herself for it when she sees a flicker of amusement in your eyes.
But, she has won the favor of you staring at her once again. A fair trade, she presumes.
Rhaenyra clears her throat.
"I have been thinking," she begins, not knowing entirely where she is going, just knowing she cannot stand your silence—knowing you would maintain it for as long as it took to make her break.
You inhale. Your fingers make a dull rhythmic sound as they drum against the glass bottle.
"I can imagine."
Rhaenyra huffs, an almost laugh. You smile, and it is ever sweeter on Rhaenyra's tongue because she knows you do not want to; knows you cannot help it.
"Much has happened," she sighs. She finds it in herself to take a seat on the floor, folds her legs beneath her so that her gown shields the skin. Perhaps it is the angle—you stare down at her, now—but there is a warmth in your eyes that makes her shiver.
"Much has happened," she repeats, swallowing hard. "It has been difficult to... find the time to really speak, with you. I have missed... our chats."
You hum. She watches you take another, longer sip. She watches a droplet escape from the corner of your lips, watches it make a path down your chin, down the slope of your neck.
"Are you upset with me?" Rhaenyra blurts. The words pour from her mouth bitter as bile.
For the second time tonight, she has succeeded in destabilizing you, though neither instance has been purposeful. You blink at her, almost owlishly.
Then, your eyes leave hers for good.
You settle them on the fire. You are devastatingly gorgeous in this light.
"Do you find me neglectful?" Rhaenyra watches you closely, waiting for your face to crack open. You are so quiet she can hear your breathing.
"Perhaps you think my pursuit of the crown covetous. Rooted in vainglory."
She hears the sardonic bite in her voice before she can temper it. A defensive reaction at best, a cruelty at worst; she knows not which end it stems from.
She is surprised not by her own bitterness, but by your reaction—you stand, explosive not in the speed of your movement but in the weight of the air that surrounds you now; heavy and thick like molasses, or blood. The bottle still in your hand, a small and violent thing, a caged echo of the crashing sea beyond the imagined protection of stone walls and glass windows.
You look for a moment as though you are going to burst with all the things you must say. Rhaenyra's heart pounds.
You sigh, and lean against the wall beside the fireplace.
"The crown is your birthright. There is nothing vainglorious about that."
Not enough. Rhaenyra tries not to appear as though she is floundering but is sure you can see the panic in her eyes.
"Then, you find me neglectful."
You scoff. You say nothing, for a long, long moment—you are searching for an answer that does not reveal too much. She can see it in the way your eyes dart, as though you can see the words behind your eyes. It has always endeared her. It makes something beautiful twist painfully in her gut.
"You are the Queen. The only thing you are barred from neglecting is your duty to the realm."
Rhaenyra's ears redden as frustration intensifies the storm in her throat. You are not even looking at her, cannot see the way you torment her with your half-answers, perhaps because you do not want to, but you will, you will see her, tonight.
"Enough," she breathes, and stands, like a rising gust of wind. "Enough of this. You trifle with your Queen."
She pleads for your ignition. Your eyes are burning when they snap to hers.
"Trifle? I have done nothing of the sort."
"Yes, you—you lie to me."
Your jaw sets. You push yourself off the wall, place the bottle at your feet.
"I am sworn to you. To claim I have made you believe a falsity is to question my fealty." You hold her gaze. Rhaenyra tries to keep her breath shallow, afraid you will hear her tremble.
"Do you?" You ask, even though you know she does not, would not.
She wills herself to shake her head. "I do not."
You remain still, but the air between you now feels devoid of oxygen.
"Then what do you claim? What truth have I kept from you, my Queen?"
She wishes you would not call her that. Not now. She dislikes the way it sounds on your tongue—devastatingly antiseptic, dispassionate, lacking the lyricism you impart when you say her name, her true name. She realizes suddenly she has not heard that sound in many moons.
The fire crackles.
Rhaenyra sighs, feels her shoulders deflate. The space behind her eyes dawns a terrible ache.
"You treat me as though we have not lived our very lives together."
You have no response to that. But the darkness in your eyes does not settle.
"What wrong I have committed to deserve this?" she mutters. Heat blurs her gaze. "Please, tell me. I will do anything you ask to mend it. Anything."
When her first tear falls you fall with it. Your face softens as much as you can allow, and you move toward her, far too slowly, far too fast. Rhaenyra bites the soft flesh of her inner cheek. Acrid salt on her tongue.
"Rhaenyra," you breathe, and Rhaenyra breathes with you.
Your fingers graze the curve of her jaw. A dreadful ache between her brows forces them up and together. You have always been able to bring this from her; the little watery softness that exists beyond the dragon's volcanic crust.
It should hurt her more than it does. Something in the sting of being put out, the hiss of flame quenched by gentle rain. It undoes her but always with the promise of lacing her together once again.
"You have committed no wrong against me," you say, too quietly. You take her chin lightly between two fingers and she cannot help but lean forward, ever so slightly, chasing the ghost of your touch. "You could not."
Your voice pulls fresh tears down her cheeks and into the grooves of your fingertips.
"Why, then?" she croaks. You shake your head.
She cannot find it in herself to be ashamed at the way she strips herself for you now. It is not becoming of a Queen, but the Queen inside her has collapsed of exhaustion and now only Rhaenyra remains.
You take her cheek in your palm now. The skin there is calloused by the years and the scratch against the regal softness of her own is frightfully tender.
You watch her with such tenderness that for a moment she thinks she may begin to melt. A soft sob escapes her.
"My Queen," you whisper, and though she would rather hear her name, the way you say it is dulcet and rhapsodic and reminds her of a song you hear once and spend the rest of your years trying to capture.
"The sun will soon rise." Your breath smells like sweet liquor and mint. Rhaenyra leans into your touch and your exhale rushes against her.
"The prince will not like to find the bed empty when he wakes."
Your thumb traces feather light across her chin. Your eyes bore into hers when you press it gently against her bottom lip. Rhaenyra feels her lungs jump against their flimsy bone caging.
Your hand leaves her. She cannot help the gasp that escapes her, the lurch in her stomach like the dread of having almost tumbled over a cliff.
She steps forward when you try to reassemble the space between you. Her hands tremble, face still wet with tears.
"Rhaenyra," you say, again. You have forced the word from your mouth but it does not bite. She has not heard a tremor in your own voice for so long that she almost forgot what it sounded like.
She steps forward again. In your stare is something she has seen so little in you it may as well be naught. You are afraid.
She can feel your fevered breathing against her chin.
"Please," she says, though she does not know for what she pleads. You shake your head with such little movement it could be mistaken for a twitch. You retreat into yourself so that you do not have to touch her.
She reaches for you; a hand, gingerly on your chest. Your eyes flutter shut and she splays her palm against the fabric of your tunic, runs it up, thumb brushing over the swell of your throat.
You recoil.
"I—I cannot. I cannot."
Rhaenyra tries to speak but is rendered silent by the look on your face. She yearned for a crack in your facade but now the whole stone has crumbled, shattered to pieces that barrel toward her in a crushing slide.
Your eyes are molten, lips curled into the snarl of a tiger so mortally wounded it can only curse the ground it bleeds into. Life that can only end in death. Devotion that can only rot to resentment. Warmth that can only freeze to ice.
"Please."
"I don't—"
"Please. You must go."
Oh, how she wants to refuse. How she wants to burn you in her flame, reduce you to ash so that there is no part of you that can hide from her, no part of you that cannot be hers. How she wants to fall to her knees and beg you to let her be yours. How she wants to be yours.
But Rhaenyra pains you. Perhaps she has always seen it. Perhaps she only sees it now because your pain has been made too plain to dismiss.
She has lied beside the dying creature and said in delicate voice—if you must curse something, curse me, curse me. Not the world. Not anyone else.
Now the creature has heeded her pleas and she is the one who bleeds.
Rhaenyra says your name. You look as though a spear has been driven through your gut.
You move around her, toward the door. She turns with you but does not move from her spot.
Her jaw sets. She ceases the incessant, pathetic warbling. Her eyes shine but it is a cold glimmer.
"You dismiss your Queen?"
You hang your head. The waves crash against the sand, beyond the castle walls. She wishes it could reach her here, and drag her into sea.
"I only wish to sleep." Your voice is meek.
She feels as though she does not know the person she speaks to. It terrifies her so.
Daemon sleeps with his back facing her when she returns to their room. His breathing is far too even.
Through the curtains, the sky has begun to lighten. She slips into bed with all the grace of a drunkard and cannot bring herself to care whether or not he wakes.
My Queen. Rhaenyra. I am sworn to you. You could not. I cannot. Please. Please.
The sun is almost hung in the sky before she finds rest.
——
Violet eyes set on her sleeping face. Daemon watches her. Like a sailor might the darkness of waters under the night sky.
His gaze falls on her cheek. Streaks of salt make scattered paths across the moon.
Something heavy settles on his face. It is gone as quickly as it comes. He performs for an empty audience.
Daemon turns onto his back. He closes his eyes.
The dragon only has one foil, really—the warrior, who is shamefully, dreadfully human. She is the most pitiable of enemies.
Soft flesh that punctures far too easily. A body that feeds into itself so intensely it can wither if you simply cut the wrong spot. A mind that can be caught and subsequently unwound at the smallest of tugs. A heart that is as strong as it is mortal.
Mortal, mortal. The dragon is beyond that. Yet time and time again it is the warrior who bests the creature, not because she is more powerful, or even smarter, but because it is pain that governs her devotion.
Because it is she who crawls dutifully, through fires the dragon would sooner start.
What a curious thing you are. So much, concealed in that mist you try to hide behind.
You are most comfortable hidden, yes? Safest behind the curtain?
A creature bares its teeth when threatened. A warrior steels for battle, or takes the knee.
You have steeled. Many a time. Daemon thinks you are unaware of it; he wagers you would not do it so often if you knew. He was not trying to bring it out of you at first. But it has become something he craves, now.
It is an itch he cannot quite scratch. Not until he sees your jaw twitch. Your eyes falling on him in a way that promises violence, even if just for a blink. Your tongue fashioned far sharper than is acceptable, when you speak to your King—feasibly dismissed as bluntness or pride, but Daemon is quite observant.
But even then it remains. Thrumming beneath the surface of his skin. Like the heady scent of rain in the air days before the sky breaks open.
The anticipation only worsens it. Makes every scarce droplet feel cruelly insufficient.
Do you take the knee, now?
The thought makes him bitter.
For if you have, why does it feel so terribly false? Not quite dead but not quite asleep, either. Something buried in the heart of winter, waiting for the thaw.
You neither resist nor surrender. And Daemon has never had much patience for uncertainty.
He wonders if you feel free, in the moments when your restraint wears thin enough to cost you.
He wonders what it might take to spend you, entirely.
content warnings: suggestiveness… mentions of sexual activity… heh
notes: this is like a slight college au… idk why i just love writing those. anyways just something fun and cute… enjoy! just something cute while i work on the second part to cherry waves... idk if yall even want that but im still writing that shit because one thing about me, i love a sugu x reader x sato 🤤 anyway.
So just so we're all clear ICE agent Jonathan Ross straight up murdered Renee Nicole Good in broad daylight and the government is calling HER the terrorist
chapter tags: hurt/comfort, slight angst, whatever is in between angst and fluff, college au
content warnings: substance use
notes: PHEW! this is the end guys... sorry about the length i got a bit carried away heh... i'm ngl i always knew it would end this way like everything has been leading up to this. i had so much fun writing this series and thank you to everyone who took the time to read and support it :,). love all you guys. please enjoy and i hope this feels like a proper end! i really loved writing this chapter... oh kento my kento...
p.s. this is not proofread so plz give me grace >_<
song inspo: easy falling - little dragon; lover you should've come over - jeff buckley
Kento's new room is quite spacious. It's got three windows, one more than his old one did; a queen sized bed, a desk with drawers that don't take as much maneuvering to open, and a ceiling fan.
It smells a little like sage—one of his new roommates had gotten there before him and burned some, which Kento thought a nice practice.
His new roommates—Yuuta and Ino—were nice enough. Both other students, both also starting their senior year. He'd found them online, but Kento had met them before, at frat events.
Yuuta was the one who burned the sage. Ino hadn't gotten there yet (and so, was going to be stuck with the smallest room. A shame.)
Kento was always aware it would be a bit strange: unpacking his things into a room that is not the one he's come to know, walking in to faces that were not quite as familiar as those he was usually greeted with.
His presumption, though, did not make it any less unsettling.
He realized as he brought everything in that he actually does not have that many belongings. Clothes, sure, but nothing else, really. A laptop, blankets, sheets, one plant (a housewarming gift from his mother). All his posters tore when they were peeled from the walls of his room at the frat, despite his best efforts. It was Satoru that took them down, actually—something Kento tried very hard not to be angry at, because he knew his friend was only trying to help.
"I'm sorry! Sorry, sorry, please don't be mad, we can't spend our last hours together mad, Kento!"
Satoru had been a little sarcastic, but Kento saw through it to his fear and let him off the hook. He had always been there to clean up Satoru's messes but now he wouldn't be so available—Kento knew just the idea of accountability would be a nightmare to him.
(Or maybe Satoru was just sad to see him leave. The end of an era, he supposes.)
"It's fine," he'd said, finally, after taking a moment to breathe. He put a hand on Satoru's shoulder and saw something strangely endearing in his friend's eyes. "I can get new ones."
"And it's not as though I'll never see you again. Stop acting like I'm going off to war."
But you are, you're going off and away and you're gonna come back different and you're leaving me and us and you're never gonna hang out with us anymore i just know it—
Kento listened to as much of Satoru's rambling as he could before he cut him off with a hug, which was likely as uncomfortable for his friend as it was for him, but at least it shut him up.
Kento knew long before he actually said so that he was going to leave the frat senior year. He knew the moment you kissed him—maybe even before that. It wasn't fair to say it was all your fault, because it wasn't: it wasn't just about you.
He had grown beyond the space provided there—or maybe, he'd shifted shapes entirely, and simply was no longer fit.
He told all of this to Satoru, trusting him—because Satoru knew better than most that to betray Kento's trust was enough to lose him forever.
"I understand," Satoru had said, though the pout he wore told Kento the opposite. "I just wish it was Toji leaving, instead. He's been so annoying lately."
A few days later, Kento was in Malaysia.
The living quarters the school gave him were small and a bit secluded: about two miles away from the nearest city, neighbors far and few between. He was unsure the purpose of the location, considering his actual work was to be done in the city, but after a while he became grateful for it.
It was right off a small beach. No one came by it very much, and when they did it was someone wandering, or taking a walk, entranced by the crystal blue waters that drew Kento out each morning.
He got up for the sunrise most of the time. He had to wake up early anyway, and he found starting it all with something so stunning inevitably set the pace for a better day.
The water made him quite introspective. Kento fought it at first, because part of the reason he'd come here was to not think, to escape thinking, at least about the things that made him hurt.
But even that he did not want to admit—because that would be admitting he'd made this decision out of some naive desire, to discover a new self: to emerge a chiseled statue, from the wreckage he'd left behind.
And that was not true. Not at all. He maintained that truth for a long time; until it became a lie.
Kento did not frequent his social medias while abroad but when he did it was always to check on you. It was too much to reach out to you directly—too much for you, and too much for him.
He was still so hurt by you. He felt it was stupid, useless, to be hurt—but he was hurt nonetheless. You hadn't meant to, he knew you hadn't meant it, but he thought of your face, that night, staring into his eyes, and your mouth, and your hands, trembling in his. And his chest ached and he shook his head to rid it of your image.
But he could not.
He waited helplessly for you to post, to update on how you were doing, however inadvertently. Because even as he was hurt by you, he could never be so hurt as to stop caring.
And then, when Kento accepted that—accepted the depth of his emotion for you, the stark pain of it, and the beauty of it too—only then, did his mind clear.
Kento made new friends, ones he was keeping in contact with now, and planned to for the foreseeable future. He tried new things and laughed more than he can ever remember laughing. He became a better swimmer.
He was sad to leave. He wishes he could've spent the summer there, too, but his study abroad ended as the semester did and he parted from the place that had only just started to become a home. He would be back, he knew—maybe next time, he'll bring someone with him.
"Kento," Yuuta calls, from his room. He's taken out of his internal spiral: he thinks it must be his roommate telling him Ino has arrived. But, no—
"Someone's here to see you!"
When he turns the corner into the living room, Kento's mouth goes a little dry. Choso is standing there, and he feels the hot shame coming back to him: the image of his friend's face, the betrayal, when Toji had ruined everything. He can never forget it.
But Choso is not looking at him like that right now. He looks almost scared, like Kento is about to kick him out. He's a little buffer than when he last saw him, but that endearing awkwardness remains.
"Choso," Kento says, and blinks, unsure what else to say. He tries to recover, but his mind is blank. He clears his throat, rubs at the side of his neck.
"Kento, hey," Choso replies, in that soft, nervous voice that Kento has always known to be an indicator of his discomfort. He ignores the stab of melancholy that comes with that observation.
"I just wanted to stop by, see the new place," he continues, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Sorry to just, like, drop by uninvited—you're probably really busy unpacking and everything."
Kento shakes his head, almost frantically.
"No, no, it's not a hassle at all. I'm glad you came. I'm... very glad, actually... to see you."
He hopes his attempt at a smile is good enough. It seems to be—Choso smiles back, and Kento tries to keep his sigh of relief quiet.
They do a tour of the house. Yuuta is kind enough to let them into his room, and they admire his manga collection with genuine envy (how can he afford all of that anyway?) When they get to Kento's room, Choso comments on how barren it is, and Kento gets to tell the story of Satoru's poor poster removal technique, which gets him a laugh.
The frat is having a party tonight, Choso tells him: just something small, to celebrate the beginning of their senior year, and initiate the newer recruits.
"You should come," he says, when Kento is walking him out. "I think everyone would love to see you. Satoru hasn't stopped complaining about how 'different it is without you' since last year."
Kento says maybe. They hug each other, which is a bit weird for them, but doesn't feel weird in the moment.
He does not miss the fact that there is no mention of you. Maybe, he reasons, their mending bond is too fragile for that weight. Maybe your mending bond with Choso is even more fragile still—if it is mending at all. He doesn't know much about what happened while he was abroad and he hasn't asked any questions.
Ino moves in. They sit together and make house rules, divvy up chores, learn a little more about each other.
That night, when Kento shows up at the frat, he's actually a little frightened. Of what, he isn't sure. The bottle he's brought as a sort of gift is very, very heavy in its paper bag when he approaches the door. The sense of familiarity that overwhelms him is almost like an ache.
Choso's claim of 'just something small' is perhaps the first proper understatement of Kento's senior year. The house is as full as he's ever seen it and he suddenly feels a bit underprepared to go headfirst into the life he removed himself from.
"Is that Kento?"
An arm falls onto his shoulders and he can smell the fruity alcohol on Satoru's breath, but the bright grin on his friend's face is enough for him to allow it.
"It is you! Holy shit, holy shit, I'm so happy, I think I'm gonna explode."
Suguru forces him to play some drinking game that requires shots almost every other turn, and Kento is too spirited to turn him down. And it's only natural that Kento would get quite drunk, anyhow. There are many things on his mind and he is not above a temporary reprieve.
Toji is there, too, but to Kento's relief he largely ignores him—nothing more than a mean smirk and a nod his way. Some things really are better left in the past.
And yes, his eyes are scanning the crowd, looking for you, looking for you. When he's sure you aren't there he relaxes a little more.
It's Suguru that brings you up first, when he's pulled him outside for a smoke. Suguru smokes cigarettes and Kento doesn't approve, but it's hard to argue with him when he himself is smoking, too—a joint Choso drunkenly rolled for him as a 'housewarming gift'. They're sitting on the lawn, backs against the fence, the night air bringing clarity to their fogged minds.
"So," Suguru starts, and Kento turns like he doesn't already know the rest of the statement. "Have you talked to her yet?"
Kento shakes his head, and doesn't say anything else. Suguru sighs.
"You know she and Choso hooked up, right? Like, before you left."
He winces, but nods. "Of course I knew that."
"Sorry. Just checking."
Suguru's cigarette goes out. The click of the lighter fills the silence.
"Just so you know, they didn't do anything after you left. She didn't come here, actually, for a while. And when she did it was near the end of the year, and it was only like, once or twice. I think they were taking space, y'know?"
Kento tries not to seem too interested, but in his inebriated state his usual defenses are quite low, and Suguru is quite keen, even when drunk. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes.
"That makes sense," he finally says, hoping Suguru will say more, despite his clipped response. Thankfully, his friend knows him well, knows the questions he has been dying to ask someone, anyone, since he'd stepped foot back on campus.
"She seemed like she had a good semester. Obviously I didn't, like, hang out with her or anything, but I saw her around sometimes, and she, you know. She looked happy most times I saw her."
Kento turns to him. He finds no judgement in Suguru's eyes, and decides to be honest.
"Do you think that Choso...?" he asks, quietly, but can't bring himself to finish the sentence. Suguru smiles and huffs a laugh.
"What? That he loves her?"
Kento bristles and rolls his head to face forward again. Suguru watches him for a moment, and sighs.
"I think he does. But it's complicated. Honestly, I think he didn't know what he wanted, and if it was really just her that he wanted, he would know. And I think he's aware of that."
"Do you think she loves him?"
Suguru pauses at that. Kento waits with a painful ache for his answer, but tries to remain still.
"I think... she did. Maybe. But I think it's complicated, too. And I don't think she knew what she wanted, either. I always got the feeling part of it was the fear of losing him, for her. Even if it's not romantic, there's still a lot of love there, you know?"
Quiet. Kento smokes the joint until it's just the paper burning, and stubs it out in the grass. It's biodegradable, after all.
You post your summer dump at midnight that night (or that morning?) Kento scrolls through diligently, splayed out on his mattress in his new bedroom. Drunken chatter echoes outside.
His breathing stutters a little at the first photo—the first photo—because it's you, staring at the camera with that beautiful, beautiful smile.
He's almost jealous that the world gets to see it: that it's not saved just for him.
First day of classes. This is his final, final fall semester, but it feels like any other. Something in him dreads going back to the mundanity of seminars and lectures, but there is some charm to be found in it all now that it's about to be over.
Kento typically gets to class early—he typically gets everywhere early. He likes being able to pick his seat. He chooses the middle on the far left and loses himself in his phone until the professor comes in.
When he looks up, all the seats are taken. He studies the backs of everyone's heads.
Oh. Oh no.
You're there. You're right there, in the seat in front of him. How did he not notice your arrival? Did you notice him? Were you ignoring him? Did you think he was ignoring you, and is that why you were ignoring him? Was he supposed to say hi—
You turn. You give him a nervous smile, and Kento feels like his heart is a drum and the person beating it just can't find the tempo.
"Kento," you greet, and somehow you sound even prettier than he remembered. Maybe his imagination just can't match the quality of the real. "You're taking science fiction writing?"
Oh god. Kento's mind is melting. It's such a simple question, with such a simple answer, but seeing you act normal, and effortlessly so, is making him flounder.
(Or maybe it's just seeing you at all.)
"I, uh... I needed a random credit," he manages, lamely, though you don't seem to think it that way.
You crane your body to face him even more, and raise an eyebrow. The slight tremble in your fingers is the only thing that tips Kento off to what he assumes must be nerves, but there's no way you're as anxious as he is, and he's not sure what to do with that feeling.
"But you hate sci-fi, don't you? Why didn't you just take a gym class?"
Kento loves sci-fi.
A sudden and surprising chill infects him when he hears you say that, because it brings back that embarrassing hurt that he used to feel when he thought of you. That he used to feel when he looked at you. That he felt that night, when you kissed him, when he held you, crying over someone else.
His face hardens.
"Didn't feel like it," Kento says, and he looks back to his phone before he can see the way your face falls.
He sees you at the edge of his vision, staring at him just a moment longer, before you turn to face the front once again.
The next time he has that class, Kento sits in a different seat, a few rows away: not far enough to seem vindictive, but far enough for his wellbeing.
It barely helps. He can see you glancing at him: sees you falter a little when you're packing your bag after class, hoping maybe he'll look to you.
He considers dropping it. Maybe he should just try to add a gym class, before it's too late, and he's stuck with this for the next few months.
But he just can't bring himself to do it.
It's alright, for a while. You eventually stop staring at him and it's almost like you're not even there—except you are, but Kento finds his need for academic validation via grade is more powerful than this painful and humiliating yearning that he cannot seem to escape.
The implosion of this frail, unearned 'stability' is, naturally, under the influence, and unprompted.
It's definitely interesting to be on the other end of the party, Kento thinks, as he's taking shots with Suguru, one Saturday, mid October. This was a particularly difficult week for him.
You'd raised your hand and agreed with his point in class. Kento was nothing if not a gentleman, and gentleman paid attention to people when they spoke, which of course included you.
You were looking right at him as you talked and you smiled so nervous and soft, he had to turn away.
He throws back his third, and when he tosses the little red cup into the trash he sees you, entering the house. You're with Shoko, a girl he knows to be one of Satoru's friends—and she sometimes walks you to class, so she must be your friend too.
You look a little scared and a little high, holding protectively onto Shoko's arm, who seems proud to have you with her. Kento can't blame her.
You look almost more beautiful than he has ever seen you—or is it just the tequila starting to burn in his stomach?
"You should talk to her," Suguru says, after downing some juice to rid his mouth of the acrid flavor. Kento had not yet told his friend that you were in his class and that he was purposefully ignoring you; even if he had, he was sure he'd receive the same advice.
He waits a while. Long enough to see you interact with Choso, and to see how different it is: far less intimate, and still a little strained, but more natural than he would've thought, at this stage.
It's that which gives him the courage to approach you. Really, you approached him, but not purposefully—you end up in the kitchen just as he's loitering there, trying to take a breather.
You go wide eyed when you see him, and you wince. Kento is drunk and his body reacts before he can properly think—he smiles at you, gives you this big wide grin that he's sure makes him look stupid, and is likely very confusing after his consistent cold shoulder.
"Hi," you say, but stay where you are, under the arch that signifies the kitchen's entrance.
"Hey."
"I didn't mean to intrude or anything, I just came to get some—"
"No, you're not—"
"—ok, ok, good, cause I don't wanna make you uncomfortable or anything—"
"You're not, you're not, it's okay—"
"Are you sure, though?" You give him a nervous smile.
"I feel like that's all I've been doing. All I can do. Like, literally every class. I'm sorry for staring at you, I know it's weird! I just can't help it, sometimes—not in a weird way, just, you know, it's... god. Ok, wait, let me start over—"
Kento appreciates your mention of the class, because he fears he might've been too nervous to do it himself. How would he even bring it up? Yes, the class we both have that I have been ignoring you in.
He exhales, in what is supposed to be a laugh; interrupts your endearingly panicked ramble.
"You're not, making me uncomfortable. You haven't. It's just..."
You tilt your head to the side just slightly. You make a tentative move closer, leaning against the island counter.
It's just that I want you so bad, I can barely look at you. It's just that I can't stand you, just as much as I can't resist you, and you're making it so hard to just try even though all you're doing is standing there.
"It's just weird, being back." What a fucking cop out. What a coward he is.
But you eat it up; move around the obvious empty spaces in his admission, and take what he gives you.
You nod and take a deep breath, rolling your head around like you're thinking. Then, you focus on him, and the dopey smile you wear makes his legs feel a little weak.
"I've been meaning to ask you about that. Malaysia. Was it as amazing as you knew it'd be?"
God, why do you have to do that? Why? He caves, and quite easily.
"It was amazing. The most beautiful place I've ever seen."
You seem so happy to hear him talk. Is it because he's finally engaging you? Or is just because you're drunk?
Maybe it's because it doesn't feel good for someone to hate you, and this conversation is confirmation for you that he doesn't. The fact that you would need that confirmation tells Kento how little you really know.
"Well, I'd love to catch up with you, sometime." Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! "If you were okay with that. Like, if that was something you also wanted. It's okay if not."
Say no. Say no. Say never, say no no no—
Kento smiles.
"Sure. I'd like that."
And just like that, it's happening again.
The next time you have class, Kento walks in and sees you already there. You wave at him, and he waves back.
You go to lunch that Thursday, and you ask him all about Malaysia—you ask him to show you photos too, and what's that person's name? Oh, I like his hair. And what's that in the back?
You text him a few times, testing the waters. Not in a way that feels strange, necessarily: it's like you're trying to find a place in his life again, which feels as good as it doesn't.
(Of course, he texts you back. He could never leave you on delivered.)
And slowly, Kento finds himself in the very same position he had been drowning in last year—close to you, but not enough.
Never enough.
"Gold, or silver?"
"Huh?"
Faye is poking her head into your bedroom. Her hair is up in rollers and her makeup is half done. You're sitting on your bed in the pajamas from last night watching a movie.
"Just pick! And why aren't you getting ready yet?" she chides, entering. Your eyes go a little wide at her dress—it's beautiful, a little sparkly, a form fitting halter that extenuates the soft point of her collarbones.
"Oh, wow. You look stunning," you say, throwing the covers off of you to stand. Faye's ears go a little pink and she does a spin for you, giggling in a way you might think to be nervous if you didn't know how much she loves compliments. Maybe if you lay it on thick, she'll forget all about making you get ready, and your suite mates will leave you to your slightly pathetic movie night.
Before you can even try, Faye is shaking her head, turning to your closet with her hands on her hips.
"And you're gonna be looking just as good, when you finally get dressed. Where's your outfit?"
You sigh, and step around her, opening the closet to show the dry-cleaned dress hanging there, wrapped in plastic. You tried it on once, and it looked nice. You had a whole Pinterest board of makeup looks, too—hairdos, and jewelry combinations. It would be a shame for it all to go to waste but if you have any luck, it will.
Faye goes to say something, but then she must see the look on your face. She sighs.
"Ok, ok, why don't you get in the shower, and I'll pull the dress out for you. I'll get you a drink too, okay? Just go, go go go!"
She shuffles you out and shuts the door before you can manage an argument. Did she just kick you out of your own room?
You get in the shower, because you have no choice—otherwise, you'd just sit on the couch like a loser, waiting for her to open up again. There are unfortunately limits to how low you're willing to go in order to avoid tonight.
The shower is as hot as it possibly can be, and the steam surrounds you in a discomforting embrace. You stare at the walls, sweating with condensation, and find yourself lost in thought. Again.
It's been happening to you a lot recently. Maybe it's because you're facing the end of your final fall semester. It's only natural to reflect on the past when confronted with the future, right?
(But it's not the past that you're really thinking about—at least, not the whole past, just a specific sliver of it, moments that follow you, and fill the silences.)
The heat makes you think about Kento, because the last you spoke he was telling you about how hot it was in Malaysia. After class, you were walking to get a coffee, as you typically did, and because you wanted to hear him talk you asked him questions—the answers of which you were still very much interested in, despite their randomness.
"Do you like the heat? Like, would you want to live somewhere hot, or would you miss the seasons?" you asked, holding your notebook close to your chest, almost like a shield.
It did little to protect you from the disarming flutters that festered in your stomach, every time Kento looked into your eyes, or you looked into his—doesn't it have to be both, always, anyway?
"I love the heat," Kento replied, and the way he was staring off made you think he must be reminiscing on his life in Malaysia, or perhaps imagining a future in which he was always warm, always tan, and happy.
"I've been thinking about moving to Malaysia, after graduation. I'm not sure when, exactly. But I do want to go back there."
You smiled at him, and he turned to look at you. He'd started giving you that soft, charmed gaze again, the one you'd grown used to—a stark contrast to the guarded, almost blank expression he'd taken to at the year's start.
God, that had been just horrible. You had never wanted someone to just yell at you in all your life. There was almost nothing more painful than a cold shoulder, because it denied you access to the person in totality—at least if they were angry, you knew they were thinking about you.
When Kento had first started ignoring you, you figured he must've hated you. He must've gone away and realized that all the times he'd said No, it's okay, it's fine had been placating, self-sacrificing lies—just the same way you'd come to see it, in his absence.
Because it had never really been fine, had it?
Because you could never forget that look in his eyes, when you kissed him: you'd never seen him so pained, so distraught. And he hadn't said Stop, I don't want this, he'd said—stop, you don't want this. And when you thought about it, lying in bed at night, you uncovered the words he hadn't said—stop, you don't want this, but I want this, and you're hurting me.
"That's awesome," you'd said, your ears heating so you had to look away from him. "I can totally see you doing that. I always sort of thought you'd be a traveller."
Kento huffed. "Really? Why's that?"
"I dunno. You just... I guess I always thought of you as someone that's always... growing. And if you're always growing, it's only natural that you get too big for the places you've been your whole life."
He stared at you a little oddly then, and you stared back at him—and something almost happened, but then a biker almost hit you and the breeze of their inconsideration broke the spell.
Fall has turned to winter and now the leaves are dead on the ground, but something is blooming inside you. You weren't sure what, at first: stupidly, you think, because it was always sort of obvious what, but it was easier to ignore than admit it.
What was the point in admitting it, anyway? Kento had changed and moved and there was no longer space for you. And you couldn't even be mad, because there had been space, ample space, but all you'd done was dip your toe in it and run off into another space that didn't quite fit.
Space. Choso. You didn't speak to him for much of your spring semester, last year. You returned his sweater that day and after that it was almost nothing. Sometimes he sent you videos or photos he said made him think of you, but the idea of him thinking of you hurt, and so you didn't respond until you were ready.
Until you were sure what you wanted, and that it wasn't him.
That it was someone else, someone who had always been there but was no longer waiting for you to see them—even though you had always seen him, but just not in the way he needed you to. The way you should've.
But things are alright. Things are alright with Choso, with everyone else. And that's enough. Right? At least Kento was talking to you.
(But something about the closeness that had fostered between the two of you was almost worse.)
You saw him at least once everyday, typically because you asked. It was almost always you that asked, but you kept doing it. As long as he says yes.
(He always does.)
When you get back to your room, Faye has tidied your makeup desk, laid out your dress, and placed a few shoe options on the floor underneath it. A red solo cup with some dark liquid and a glass of water are next to your vanity. You will thank her later, with hugs and kisses and whatever else she demands.
Despite all of Faye's help, you still really, really, do not want to go. It's a stupid senior gala, an opportunity to dress up and celebrate the end of fall semester with watered down drinks, poorly curated music, and finger-foods. It's not even gonna be fun, you think, as you put on lotion—it's gonna be lame, and tiring, and you're gonna have to talk to people you don't want to talk to.
And, Kento's bringing a date.
He didn't even tell you himself—which shouldn't have mattered. It was actually Satoru that informed you, during a study date with himself and Shoko. You'd had a class with her spring semester and just clicked, so now you spent time with her, and subsequently, Satoru.
"She's this sporty, bubbly type. Cute. Not really what I would pick for Kento, but you know—maybe he's trying something different."
You chewed on the end of your pen, trying to seem disinterested. "That's cool. I didn't know we were even supposed to bring dates."
Shoko huffed, shifting beside you. "We're not supposed to. But everyone thinks you're lame if you don't have one. I'd go with you, but I'm going with Suguru."
You rolled your eyes. "What is this, prom?"
"Well, since both of my dear friends have abandoned me, I don't have a date... and you don't have a date, so... I see a clear solution here," Satoru had offered: the mischievous look on his face told you to refuse, but then you had a selfish, selfish thought—seeing Kento with his girl, and you all alone... or seeing him with her, and you with Satoru, and how Kento might react to that. Would he care?
Would it hurt him? You don't want to hurt him, but it seems that may be the only way for you to get his attention.
(Again—you truly know nothing, don't you?)
"That's all I am to you? A fallback?" you tease, and Satoru just laughs, pretends to be wounded.
"Don't twist my words! I promise, I'll be the best date ever. I'll get you a corsage and everything."
"Please don't do that."
The next time Faye knocks on your door, it's because the car is here. You're just about ready, which is a feat considering how long it typically takes you. You and your suite mates take a shot before you leave, careful not to smudge your lipstick. The three of you pile into the car and giggle about everyone you'll run into—but when you're pulling up on the venue, you get quiet.
Satoru is waiting for you in the parking lot. He wanted to call a car for you, but you refused: don't spend your money on me. Then I'll owe you.
(He had insisted he would never make you pay him back for anything, but you reminded him of the many times he'd gotten you into strange situations on the basis of redeeming a favor, and he acquiesced.)
"Wow," he greets, giving you a smile that makes you understand all the girls he's ever wooed. "You almost look better than me."
You take Satoru's hand, and let him guide you inside.
The space is nicer than you anticipated. It smells like lavender cleaning solution and candle wax. Everyone is already here; the chatter surges and echoes against the tall ceilings, settling over you like a blanket that's just a bit too warm.
"Come on, let's get some drinks. If I'm gonna dance to this shit music, I'll need some liquid assistance."
Satoru is a better date than you thought he'd be. He gets you both drinks—you let him pay for that—and he waits until you're ready to take you to the dance floor. Shoko and Suguru have disappeared, probably outside smoking cigarettes, which you disapprove of: but you know you can't say anything, considering how much weed you smoke.
And then Satoru gets a little too drunk, and starts wandering off. You expected it, but it's still disconcerting when you find yourself all alone.
You watch the crowd. Everyone looks amazing, you think—everyone, but you're searching for one in particular.
"Hey," you hear, and you turn to see Choso there, but he's not alone. A girl you have never seen before stands next to him, looking a bit timid, giving you a nervous smile. You realize you hadn't even considered the idea that he might have a date—you realize that you didn't think about him in relation to the night, at all.
"Hi!" you greet, and then you turn to her, and return her grin. "I love your necklace. It's beautiful."
She beams. "Thank you! Your dress is seriously stunning, I pointed it out and I was like who is that? And then Choso said you were his friend, so... yeah. Here we are."
Awkward, but it's endearing—just like Choso. They both give you the same look and you suddenly feel something very warm in your chest.
"Oh, this is Sasha," Choso introduces, after a brief moment. "She's my date."
There is a split second of pain. Just a second. Images flash behind your eyes and you see him, above you, beneath you, holding you. And then you feel the chill of the empty bed, and the loss, of something you had once thought you'd be incomplete without. And then, the pain is gone. And you're happy.
You look into his eyes and see the same. You smile and shake Sasha's hand.
"It's really nice to meet you! You both look great, by the way."
Alone, again, watching the night pass you by. You try not to stare at Choso and Sasha when they go to dance, because you don't want them to get the wrong idea. It's not that you're jealous of her, of them, really—you're envious of his success, you think, in moving on.
Why must it be you that's left behind? Even if you're the one who put yourself there?
"Don't look just yet," Shoko says, when she's finally found you in the crowd. Suguru and Satoru are dancing together and so she's stuck to your side, which you aren't complaining about. "But Kento is here, and he's staring at you."
Your stomach drops. "Where?"
She gives you a strange smile. Her breath smells like mint and cigarettes. "To your right. Don't look, he's still looking—"
You look. Your body feels like it's been washed in molten lava.
He is so handsome that it punches your gut, takes the air from your lungs. Your breath stutters. You smile after having stared for too long, and he smiles back.
And then his date is next to him, and you want very much to cry. God, this again? Will it always be this way?
You look away. Shoko sighs.
"I told you not to look."
You stare at the floor for a moment. You're trying to fight the painful ache that is creeping through your gut but it's useless.
"Don't leave," Shoko urges, as though she's read your mind. She has a knack for just knowing. "Let's just go get some more drinks. We can even go outside for some air. Just don't leave, ok?"
Desperately, you want to sneak away, but it becomes impossible to do so.
Shoko drags you to Satoru and Suguru, says something to them with her eyes, and the four of you go to get drinks. Faye is there and you introduce her to everyone else. Satoru seems to like her very much and they go on tangents about their favorite niche media, which is an entertaining enough distraction.
You try to get drunk—with the aid of the flask Suguru snuck in, it's not very hard. You let yourself drown in the numb escape, because the alternative is endlessly glancing at Kento and his insufferably beautiful date, which is not really an option.
And just like that, it's happening again. You're yearning for someone who is not yours, but it's different, because they were yours, or at least wanted to be, but you squandered the chance. You.
So, you do your best to drink and dance until you forget that, until you can only remember the bright, smiling faces in front of you, and not the one staring at you from across the room.
Kento needs a drink.
There are two "signature cocktails" for the evening—some sort of champagne with lemon peel twisted on the rim called The Final Toast, and something blue, sparkling: Diploma Drop. Neither have enough alcohol to get him through this night and he would rather die than say either name out loud.
His fists clench at his sides, and he glances over his shoulder at his date—Lola. She's nice enough, pretty: personality wise, not quite a fit for him, but when she'd asked him to be her date he couldn't really think of a reason to say no.
In the dream of his dream of his dream, Kento would've asked you. He'd even tried, in a way that framed it as both of you just needing someone to go with, but he chickened out every time.
Being your date without the promise was a risk for him, anyhow. If he was going to settle with just being your friend, it was irresponsible to position himself like that.
And then he found out you were going with Satoru. Satoru, of all fucking people? The rage he'd felt was nowhere near justified, or severe well beyond the situation. He'd never been one to take out his anger physically, but he'd gone to the gym the next morning, and trained so hard his arms were still aching tonight.
And then you just had to look at him, with that timid smile, and you just had to be so beautiful it made his teeth ache. Satoru was nowhere to be found when he'd seen you but it didn't matter.
Toying with him, again. Taunting him, again.
Stop, that's not fair. It's not. He has to stop that.
"Two... Diploma Drops, please."
Kento takes the drinks, turns into an unseen corner, and chugs both. That has to be at least a shot.
When he emerges, he's not surprised to see his date is being chatted up by another guy. She looks fully engaged, and that's okay with him. She deserves to have a fun, memorable night, with someone wanting and willing to give it to her. He leans against the wall. They start dancing.
His eyes find you all on their own, because of course they do. You're giggling very hard at something Suguru must've said, so hard it almost looks like you're going to keel over. And it feeds that ugly, ugly monster inside him.
He goes to the bartender on the other end of the room and orders two more Diploma Drops.
The decorations make the room look warm, fuzzy. Like he's watching a movie, removed from the scene, from his friends, from you—and aren't you his friend, too? Before anything? And oh, wouldn't it be all be so much easier if that was something he had the power to decide?
The music quiets suddenly, and the lights get a little lower. The makeshift stage at the back of the room is spotlighted and the school's President steps up—obligated applause rises and falls. A speech.
Kento sees you separate from the group, just as the droning, rehearsed jargon begins. And against his better judgement—fueled by his Diploma Drops—he trails you. He almost loses you in the crowd, but then he spots the top of your head, ducking into a hall.
He follows you through, but by the time he reaches the hall, you're gone. There's only one way to go, and that's up the stairs. He begins the climb before he can think better of it.
It leads him to another door, and when he enters that he's met with yet another hall—at its end, a balcony, where you stand, hands braced on the elaborate railing.
Don't. Do not. What will you even say? What is it you want to say?
Kento approaches you. You don't seem to hear him, so he pushes the open balcony door enough to make it creak, but not enough to seem purposeful. When you turn you look frightened, but as your eyes set on him something strange crosses over your face. You smile bright and a little dazed.
"Hello," he says, stupidly—god, this was a mistake. But you look so beautiful, how can he walk away? It was never possible to walk away, he knows that.
You shift so that you're leaning against the railing, body fully facing his. Your dress is even more stunning up close.
"Hello, Kento. Did you follow me?"
Fuck. Fuck.
"No, no, I—I just needed some air, it's hot in there. And I saw you here, so I—but I can leave, if you want to be alone—" he's already stepping back, but you mirror his movement, closing the space he tries to make.
"Please, don't—" you stop yourself, must hear how you sound. "I was only kidding. I don't want to be alone—well, not like that, I'm fine, I just... I'd like it if you stayed. If you want to."
Quiet. The speech downstairs sounds like an off pitch melody from up here. Cars honk on the road beneath you.
"Okay. I'll stay," Kento says, and he watches your chest deflate with the air you must've been holding.
He takes a spot next to you, probably too close. He's beginning to feel slightly drunk and finds its far harder to resist your magnetism in this state. You say nothing, for what feels like a very, very long time. He glances sideways at you, trying to see if you're glancing at him.
Finally, you break.
"I saw your date," you start, which is not what Kento expected you to say, and it catches him quite off guard. You notice, and try your best to smother your embarrassment.
"She's really pretty," you manage, quickly: your voice is too quiet. You clear your throat. "I think I've seen her before. Maybe we had class together or something."
Why are you saying it like that? Why does Kento feel like he's made you suffer? Why does he feel guilty? The emotions confuse him deeply and confusion gives way to a sudden cold anger. It's evident on his face when he turns away from you.
"I thought you were here with Satoru. I haven't seen him with you at all."
Kento says it the way he means it—to hurt you. To make you feel bad. The attempt goes the way it always does: he sees your face, and he feels immediately horrible, feels like the most disgusting person alive.
"Yeah, well, you haven't been with your date, either. I saw her with someone else."
The defense in your tone brings back his fury—(but it's not just that, is it? It's everything, and everything is too intense to really name).
What could you possibly be angry about? What, exactly, has he done to you?
Kento scoffs, grips the railing with both hands.
"Is there something that you want to tell me? Because you're acting as though I've done something to you, so if I have, please, enlighten me."
You're very quiet then. So quiet that Kento almost looks at you, almost: but he knows that seeing your face will either fan the flame in his gut or extinguish it wholly, neither of which viable options. There is something about alcohol that makes him want to be angry—maybe it's because it's the most explosive emotion, and he smothers it so.
"I just..." you finally begin, and your voice is a little thick. Kento's eyes squeeze shut.
"I don't understand. You totally ignored me for like, the first few weeks of class, and then all of a sudden we started being friends again, but now you're acting like such a dick—and I thought we were... I thought—"
Kento looks at you then. He wants to jump off the balcony at the glass over your eyes.
"You thought what?" he says, sounding a little harsher than he intended to. You flinch a little, your brows furrowing. "No, come on. What did you think?"
Your lack of response stirs him to answer for you.
"Did you think I would just... go back, to being whoever you needed? To giving you whatever you needed? That I'd follow you around like a kicked puppy again?"
Something in your face shatters. And then Kento really regrets it, because that part he didn't quite mean—well, maybe he meant it, but he also knows it's not fair, or true. He's spent so long being fair and true that it feels like a bit of a reprieve to lie, even in this capacity.
You turn away. He sees you wipe something off your cheek and wants to hold you, squeeze you, until you're molded into his skin.
"Kento, I... I never saw you that way. Maybe you saw yourself that way, maybe that's how you've been seeing... everything, but—it wasn't like that. Not for me."
His body feels like it's made of stone. Heavy, heavy—and still, so still.
"What... was it like, then?" Kento blurts, staring very hard at a streetlight below you. "For you."
The speech downstairs ends. Applause echoes again and is replaced by another voice—the whole faculty likely has something prepared, all of which just loose renditions of the same sentiment. Every second stretches miles between you.
"I..." you breathe, and Kento almost gasps, just at the sound of your voice.
"I was confused. I was hurt, and... you made me feel safe. You make me feel safe, always. You made me feel like someone cared, no matter what. And I took that for granted, because you offered it so readily—because you were always there, you always saw me, and now you—you don't, anymore. And I know it's my fault. I know, I know..."
You're crying now, he can tell. The hard shell encasing him is splintering, falling like feathers to his feet.
"I didn't know, what it was. I didn't realize, not really, until it was missing. And I know it's too late, it's too late. But I can't stop myself from—thinking about you. I always think about you. When you were gone I thought about you everyday. And I wanted to call, or text, but I knew you didn't want to hear from me. I knew—I know—that even as you say you're not mad at me, that you're not hurt, you are, and I wish—I wish you'd just scream at me, and hurt me too."
He's moving toward you before he can really think about it. You're turned away, not wanting him to see you cry. His hand brushes over yours, on the railing—he can't quite hold it yet, hold you yet. He's terrified.
"I don't want to hurt you," Kento mutters, simply—as though that's all he's heard, even though he's heard all of it, heard it deep in his bones, in his blood. You sniffle, but your pinkie reaches for his, timidly. His heart surges uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry," he tries. He means it, but it comes out weak. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean those things—I, I'm a little drunk, and I..."
You look at him. The words die on his tongue. Holy shit—are you an angel? A god? No, because those things are unattainable, not quite physical, and you are physical, solid, warm, in front of him.
Your lips part, like you're going to say something, but only a breath escapes you.
"I thought of you everyday, too," Kento admits, and your eyebrows do a beautiful upturn that makes him want to kiss you blind. "But I knew if I stayed, I would ask for—for more. More than what was fair to ask of you."
"That's all I've ever done to you. Ask you for more than what's fair," you whisper. Kento can't resist any longer and he trails his fingers over the curve of your jaw; your skin is so soft, almost as soft as the noise that leaves you when he touches you there, almost as soft as he knows your mouth is, as your mouth was.
"It's not the same. I offered it to you."
You smile, even though it seems quite sad. Kento is afraid he might cry.
"But I kissed you."
Kento takes the side of your face gently into his palm. His jaw trembles when he feels you lean into his touch, however involuntary.
"I know."
You exhale, prettily. "And that hurt you, didn't it?"
This is it. Say no. Say no. Protect yourself. Protect her.
But what is it that he's really protecting anyone from, anyway?
"Yes," Kento confesses, and it's like something has been dislodged from his chest. "Yes. God, it hurt me."
Your voice shakes when you ask: "I hurt you, didn't I?"
Kento takes your face in both hands, like he's cradling something fragile. He doesn't say anything. A few more tears make their way down your cheeks and he catches them with his thumbs.
"I'm sorry, Kento. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry I took you for granted. You're not a—kicked puppy, you're so much more than that. And I—"
You stop. The air chills suddenly, freezes time: Kento could live in this moment, if he was allowed. He thinks that you're going to say you need him, to which he knows he would acquiesce, even if every cell in his body would tell him that it's a mistake—who can resist being needed?
"I want you," you say. "I want you so badly, I can barely look at you."
Do you still want me too? Please, please, please—want me, want me, I'm right here. I'm here.
Oh god. That's perhaps the worst possible thing you could've said. It hits him hard in the gut, forces him forward, his forehead against yours. Breathing you in, breathing into you. He noses your cheekbone and inhales deeply, like you're going to disappear in his arms.
He closes his eyes and feels you do it too. Your eyelashes tickle his. Your breathing is somewhat erratic, still crying—he hadn't even noticed his hand on your back, rubbing gently, trying to calm you down.
"How could you think I don't see you?" he whispers, against your skin. "I do. I do. You're all I see."
Your hands slowly find themselves on the sides of his neck, fingers tickling the ends of his hair. Your gentle touch nurses the ache behind his eyes.
"I see you too," you say. "I'd like to."
Kento leans in before you can take your next breath. And he kisses you. He cradles your face with both hands, and you hold his, and it's soft, and delicate. When he pulls away you're smiling at him.
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you so close he has to turn his head to kiss you, and he does. He kisses you hard enough to distract himself from the unbearable lump in his throat, the effort it takes not to let it all spill out. And you kiss him back, and god, he loves you, he loves you. He hopes you can taste it on his lips.
You pull away this time, but not very far—just enough to breathe, to rest your head on his shoulder.
You stay like that for a while. Until the air moves again; until the weight of you in his arms becomes natural.
And Kento's new room is quite spacious. It's got three windows, two of which face the neighbor's yard, who have a dog you like to play with. A queen sized bed, with sheets he washes and replaces regularly only because he wants it to be clean for you. A desk with drawers that have ample room—just enough to keep the things you accidentally leave, which build up quite quickly.
Sometimes, he wakes up to you lying beside him. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he comes back from class and finds you there, and sometimes you're at home, or getting food with friends.
He tries not to ask much of you, and you ask little of him. Much of what is exchanged between the two of you is offered.
The time he spends with you no longer feels borrowed. Because he believes you—you want him. You want this. You want to wake up with him, you want to laugh with him, cry with him.
It's not what is given that either of you want, anyway. It's just him. It's just you.
And to know that hurts in such an odd way—so viscerally, so achingly beautiful—that it has become the most lovely feeling in the world.
pairings: choso x reader, kento x reader, toji x reader
wc: 4.4k
chapter tags: hurt and kind of comfort(?), angst, ‘unrequited’ love, college au, frat au
content warnings: toji is a dick as per usual, mentions of wine drinking
notes: heyy.... sorry this one is shorter than the others, i just felt like to make it longer would be bloating it... this took me SO LONG to write im ngl like i just had no idea what to write, like i know what chapter 6 (the next and final chapter!!!!) will be but i just didn't know how to get there. anyways, i hope you guys liked this! i'm honestly so excited to write chap 6 so that will definitely come out more quickly than this one did. ENJOY!!!!
p.s. this is not proofread so plz give me grace >_<
song inspo: holding on - tizrah; moderation is better for us - cosmo's demos
Choso dreams of you at the sink.
It's dusk. It's quiet. He knows he is at the frat house but the only thing in focus is the kitchen, is you, your back to him. He's seen this before, he thinks, he knows. A memory.
You're humming a tune he can't place. Your sleeves are rolled up and you're scrubbing hard at a big serving platter. He moves closer; he's right behind you, now, and he swears he can see your reflection in the iridescent soap bubbles.
"You don't have to do that." Choso's voice is not quite his; it is as though he watches a movie from behind his own eyes. The dialogue has already been written.
You glance at him. You smile.
"Nobody else would've."
"Kento definitely would've."
"Well, he cooked, so that's not fair."
"Right. Okay, well, Suguru would've done it."
"He's not here, remember? He went home for the weekend, a few hours ago."
"Shit. The house is gonna be a pig sty by Sunday."
You laugh. You've been scrubbing at the same dish for the entire conversation. The sound of the bubbles popping is like a mellow song. The world outside the window in the living room is a uniform soft orange, like the setting sun is directly behind the glass.
"It's alright. I don't mind washing dishes."
"That's a total lie. Your sink is always full."
"Whatever—I like doing them at other people's houses! And when I left the suite my sink was empty, by the way, so that's not even true."
Choso watches you. You look up at him with this shine in your eyes that makes his chest warm.
He has a thought—strange in its unremarkable nature, in its mundanity. He knows very suddenly that you will know one another forever. Not in any particular way, just that you will know. This is not the sort of moment that disappears, no matter the roads you go on, the shape that your lives take.
Forever, he thinks, and the thought floats out of his ear and into the invisible sphere of the universe.
"I'll leave it for now," you say. "Maybe I'll come back for it later."
Choso wakes in an empty bed.
His eyes flutter open to a dark room that he recognizes as yours, even in his half-sleep delirium. The chill of your absence is evident despite the cranking radiator—he pulls the covers up over his shoulders. He closes his eyes again but knows sleep will not come back to him.
The door creaks open. Choso squints his eyes enough to make it look like he's asleep while still being able to see you—a trick he learned as a kid, when he would stay up late, and his parents came to check on him.
Steam billows from the two mugs you're holding and you tiptoe to your side of the bed. The mattress sinks under your weight when you sit at the edge. You stare at him, and his heart picks up. He can't see clearly enough to decipher the look in your eyes but it makes his chest ache all the same.
"Choso," you half-whisper. "I know you're awake."
His ears heat, but he opens his eyes. It's clear you've been awake for a while. You smell like eucalyptus soap and peppermint toothpaste. He becomes more aware of the slightly sour taste in his mouth.
"Sorry," Choso says, voice still heavy with sleep. He sits up slowly, leaning his back against the headboard. You offer him one of the mugs and he takes it. It's tea.
"I sweetened it already. But if you want more, feel free to get it."
Your tone is deceptively casual, but he can hear the nerves pinching at the underbelly of your words. You're barely looking at him, which he can't blame you for, because he can barely look at you—at least, not into your eyes. He mutters a pathetic thanks and sips the tea. Of course, it's just the way he likes it.
The silence is painful. It's as though he's being squeezed by overbearing arms, blunt fingers pressing hard into his ribs. Your back is to him now and his eyes trace your skin. He remembers how soft it was. Is.
"Should we..." he starts, but the moment the words leave his mouth they feel like a mistake. You're already looking at him, now, though, so he has no choice but to continue: "Should we talk about it?"
Your brows furrow and Choso swallows hard. You turn away again.
"I don't know."
Choso's heart stutters. A quiet beat passes.
"I don't know either," he finally says. "I don't know what to do right now."
You shift. You take a sip of your own tea.
"Me either."
Your alarm clock ticks, ticks, ticks.
Choso gently pushes the covers off and you watch him, as he stands. He's careful not to touch when he has to go past you. His mug is forgotten on your window sill. He stands in front of you, stares at you.
Wordlessly, you both agree that he should go.
When he's in your doorway, jacket on, you stop him. In your eyes there is so, so much, so much that he will never be able to understand, that you don't even understand yourself—that, perhaps, is not meant to be understood.
You hug him, tight. He rests his chin on the top of your head and he holds you back. And then he's out your door.
It's been a week since you've seen Choso.
Since you had everything you thought you wanted, even if just for a split second. Only to suddenly and with stark pain realize that it was not what you wanted, that you don't know what you want. The not knowing is the worst of it, you think. You wish you could know where you stand with yourself, because you certainly don't know where you are with anyone else.
The space between you and Choso is uncomfortable but not unwelcome. For the first few days, you cried yourself to sleep—cried to your suitemates, your friends back home; walked around listening to sad music and took long hot showers that stung your skin so you wouldn't have room to think.
And then and then and then, you felt, impossibly, lighter.
On Tuesday, a day ago, you were finally able to talk about it without breaking down. Your suitemate, Faye, is cooking dinner and you're sitting at the island counter, sipping a glass of wine. You don't have any class tomorrow, so the three of you decided to have something of a girls night.
(The lighthearted nature of which you fear you might be hijacking.)
"I guess I've never really been so... unfamiliar, with myself," you admit, watching Faye's back as she carefully folds something in a pan. She looks at you over her shoulder, catches your eye, to let you know she's listening.
"Just, for the longest time, I thought I knew... how I felt, y'know? And now I don't, and I just feel like... like I'm in an in-between space, and I'm waiting... for something. But I don't know what."
Faye covers the pot, and turns, leaning her elbows against the counter across from you. "I feel like that all the time. Not, like, as intense as you are, probably. But, I guess, I always sort of feel like I'm waiting for the next thing. I'm saying that to tell you it's not an abnormal thing to feel, y'know?"
You smile. You haven't done that in a real way for a little while, and it feels good.
"I'm just... scared, I think. I'm scared that I made a mistake and destroyed something really, really good," you say, and it all comes out like a breath, sort of rushed. Faye nods, listens to you carefully.
You sigh, and feel your eyes start to warm.
"Like, I never thought I'd feel this way about a man, but I genuinely.... miss him. And it's not the sex that I miss or even the intimacy, just... him. My friend."
One hot tear escapes you and you wipe it pathetically. Faye pouts at you sympathetically and walks around the counter, pulls you into a soft embrace. You rest your head against her shoulder and close your eyes.
The timer shrieks and she separates from you. The room smells deliciously of garlic, lemon, everything nice. She smiles at you and holds your cheeks like you're a little, helpless child.
"Let yourself be scared. Sometimes that's the only way to understand it all. At least, for me."
You take her advice. You wallow in your fear; you let it shadow you, walking with you to class, cuddled against you at night. You let it hold your hand and stroke your hair and slowly you begin to know, to accept. Accept that you've done—the damage you did, together.
(With Choso. And with your fear, too.)
You're taking a walk at sunset when you see Toji, for the first time since what you know was his final visit to your bedroom. You spot him first, and you get the opportunity to observe what you assume must be his unguarded face. It's not all that different from what you know, you think.
He's walking down the street, toward you. You wish you crossed the street when you first noticed him but it's too late—you're too close now for him to miss, and his eyes land on you. Your stomach twists uncomfortably. He smiles, and it mocks you.
"Look who it is," Toji rumbles, his eyes narrowed as he studies you. You want to slap him across the face but find you don't have the effort to waste. "Thought you must've transferred by now."
"Leave me the fuck alone," you hiss, but your feet don't move. You feel a little paralyzed by the venomous way he's looking at you, like it's you that's done something to him. He laughs, in the cruel way he always does.
"It's not my fault that you fucked things with your fuckin' boyfriend. Not my fault he realized what you really are."
You feel a little like you've been slapped, and you know you should be angry, should be fuming—but, instead, you feel this deep, deep sadness. For him. What a miserable man he must be, you think, as you stare at his strained grin, the furrowed lines in his forehead, the tight grasp of his fists in the pockets of his sweater.
"Just leave me alone," you repeat, and you're lacking the scorned fury you know Toji was expecting—you see him falter, see something strange in his eyes that does nothing but make you mildly curious. "Stay out of my life."
You're sure he's about to say something, so you push past him, continuing toward the setting sun.
When you get home, you clean your room, and find an old sweater that you know is not yours. You're not really sure whose it is—until you're scrolling through old photos in bed, from early sophomore year.
You remember this. Everyone in the frat decided to go a haunted house, and because Choso had just gotten in, he was terrified that he would be awkward, and thus excluded. He begged you to come along, and you gave in with only a little push.
In the photo, you're standing between himself and Suguru, smiling bright and a little high on adrenaline. And Choso's wearing the sweater you found, though it looks a little less faded in the image.
You chew on your bottom lip, staring at him. He looks so much younger, even though it's only been about a year. His hair is definitely a little messier than he would let it be now. His cheeks are a little pink, though you guess it was probably cold that day—it could also be his nerves. When he walked you to your dorm that night he told you how grateful he was that you'd come. Your presence made it easier for him to be himself, he said; and you told him you felt the same.
You still did.
You knock once. A few seconds pass, and you consider leaving—then you knock again.
Choso answers the door. Just your luck. You were sort of hoping one of the others would, so you could just hand off the sweater and go.
(Only sort of, because really you want nothing more than to see him—talk to him, maybe. But what if he didn't want to see you?)
His face does something funny. It's terrified—and then he softens, and fills with light and warmth that makes you sigh in relief you didn't know you were holding.
His hand stays on the door, but it's all the way open. You swallow hard and force yourself to look into his eyes, for the first time in what feels like years. Something in them reassures you.
"Hi," you say, after a moment. The sweater in your hands suddenly feels very heavy.
"Hi," he returns, with what sounds like much effort. He blinks. "What's up? I mean, what are you—um, you, you know—what are you, what are you doing here?"
You smile tentatively. It feels like the corners of your mouth are twitching.
"I just—I hope this isn't weird, but I was cleaning my room and I found this," you hold up the sweater, hoping he can't see your hands shaking, "and I thought you might want it back. I don't even know how long it's been in there. Probably, like, years."
Of course you know how long it's been in there. You hope Choso doesn't, because then it might feel weird that you said that—is it weird that you said that? Is this weird? Should you have waited longer to see him, does he need more time, or space—
"Oh, shit. I haven't seen that thing in ages," Choso says, with an awkward sort of laugh. You blink, and return the laugh, almost involuntarily. You decide to be honest, and hope he appreciates the gesture.
"Yeah. I think the last time I saw it was, like... last Halloween. At the haunted house?"
You stare at him expectantly, and your chest feels a little lighter when you see him smile, for real, not guilty or small, but real, him.
"God, yeah. I remember that. It was fun."
An awkward silence. It weighs a little less than you think it ought to, after everything: but you're not complaining.
"Do you—do you wanna come in?" Choso chokes out, and you can tell he's said it impulsively. You feel like you might cry when you see how nervous he is, and now it's your turn to smile. He sees it, and seems to relax just a bit.
"We actually just ordered pizza... if you want that. Satoru's not home yet, so I'd get some now if I was you."
And then you're inside. You haven't been here in so long, and you can't get over that nagging feeling that you're not supposed to be here, you're not welcome anymore.
But—it becomes easy to get over. Suguru is drawing at the dining table when you and Choso come into the kitchen and you swear he really looks happy to see you. You don't miss the way his eyes go between you and Choso in something like relieved surprise.
The three of you eat at the table. Suguru mans the conversation, and you hope the look you're giving him tells him how thankful you are for that. The pizza is good and you hadn't realized how hungry you were, so you have two slices, which Choso laughs a little at, as he usually does. The sweater you brought is forgotten on the couch.
And things seem, for the moment, as though they are going to be alright. But it doesn't feel the same way that it did before, you realize. You couldn't exactly place what is different, but everything is different, and it confuses you, saddens you, relieves you, all at once.
Choso hugs you when you leave. It takes you a second longer than you mean to hug him back, so you squeeze him tighter to make up for it. Your eyes betray you and get a little glassy, and you can see his doing the same when you pull away, but he only smiles at you.
"Come by again soon," he says. I miss you, he says. You nod, and smile the best you can without crying. It all feels far too tender, but you know it's only natural. Soon, you know, the painful fragility of everything will toughen. For now, you'll wallow in the softness.
You took the bus there, but you think you'll walk home. You're a little worried that if you're sedentary you'll think too much, so you appreciate the light movement.
There's just the right amount of chill in the air. A few people that pass you by smile, and you smile back, waving at a little girl who waves at you. You listen to music and it colors the picture you see, makes everything move in a different way. You get lost in the way the breeze makes the dead leaves dance.
You're waiting to cross the street, and you feel eyes on you. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon and the imminent darkness puts you a little on edge.
But your gaze focuses when the light changes, and you see Kento, approaching the corner of the block you're crossing to.
You realize that you have not seen him in a long time. You want to smile, chat him up—then, you remember that the last you did see him things went very wrong, and you wish very suddenly to disappear.
He doesn't look like he feels very different. His face is guarded as it usually is, but something in it makes you guilty.
"Kento!" you call, despite all of that, and you smile as soft as you can. He returns it with only a nod, but stops to let you catch up to him.
"Hi," you say, once you've gotten up to him. You feel a little breathless despite not having moved very quickly, or very far. "How are you? I—um... it's been a little since we talked. I hope everything's good with you."
You curse yourself for rambling, and bite your tongue to curb yourself from tumbling headfirst into the hole you've dug. Kento watches you very carefully and you're unable to read anything on his face. It's almost as though you're seeing him through a veil.
"It's late for you to be walking home alone," Kento says. You don't miss that he avoids your question, or the supernatural evenness of his tone.
You sigh, and flex your fingers at your sides.
"I know. It's okay, I'm almost there. I just wanted to be outside for a bit."
You know that he has guessed where you've come from, and who you've gone to see. He just seems to know, always, even when it's likely better for himself not to. You smile and try to keep it from seeming sad, but you know that he sees through.
His face cracks open, just a little. He exhales hard.
"I'm headed in that direction," Kento offers. "If you'd let me accompany you."
You almost say no, because you know he's likely not headed in that direction, and is just being kind, like he always is. Almost, but then you stare at him a little harder, and you see a little more through that splinter in the fog over his eyes, and you feel like if he leaves you alone right now you might cry.
You walk in silence, for a little bit. It feels like Kento is actively trying to repel you, but not because he's being obvious—frankly, because he's not. You've always known that the truth of his emotions are typically found in his restraint.
"...can I say something?" you say, after about a block. He turns to you; then, he looks straight again. He rubs at the sides of his neck.
"Yes. Though I'm not sure why you feel the need to ask."
Your cheeks feel hot. "I don't know. Maybe you wanted me to be quiet or something—which would be fine. I like quiet walks too."
Kento's gait softens, and he sighs. When he glances at you you're sure you see the beginnings of a little smile.
"Well, I appreciate your consideration. I now give you the okay to start speaking."
A laugh escapes you at that—half grateful, half actual amusement. He doesn't laugh back yet, but his smile comes to fruition, small as it is. The sky has fully darkened, but the street lamps light your way; even if they didn't, the light pollution in the area always prevents true night, anyhow.
(And still, Kento must walk you home, see you to safety—and still, you want him to.)
The moment settles, and you swallow, turning away from him.
"Well, I... I just wanted to say, um. Sorry. Sorry, for what happened," you force out. You see his head turn to you in your peripheral, and you stare straight ahead.
"It was just—you know. It was a weird time, for me. It is a weird time. Not that that's an excuse. I just—I don't want you to feel like, I'm... I don't know. Playing with you. I'm not—I wasn't. At least, I didn't mean to. I'm just really sorry, for everything."
You're met with a painfully long silence. Maybe it's not actually that long, but it certainly feels that way. You finally work up the courage to look to him and almost wince when you see him staring ahead, at the sidewalk. You're actually a little grateful for the quiet, the longer it stretches—maybe it would better for him not to respond at all—
"I never felt like you were playing with me," he finally says. "I know you wouldn't do that."
—and how is it that he always, always, proves you wrong? Proves to you that there's more to everything than what you think you can see?
Kento turns to you. He gives you a weary smile.
"I just felt like you didn't know—" he pauses, inhales a little sharply, "—like you didn't know, what you wanted. But it's rare that anyone does."
You pause at the crosswalk. You're staring at him even he's looked away from you—not entirely, just not into your eyes, anymore.
"Kento," you say, softly, and when he does look back at you, his eyes are so gentle, it makes your heart lurch just a little. You're not sure what you really wanted to say, so you settle with something safe:
"Thank you. For understanding. For just—... thank you."
He nods. You cross the street, and you wait for him to say something else, but nothing comes. You can see your campus entrance, just a few blocks ahead. Something in you wants to elongate this moment, but something else wants to disappear.
You pass by your favorite sandwich shop and offer to buy him something. He refuses but gives you a smile that you know is grateful. Things feel easier but there is still a weight, on the back of your necks. You see it in the way he hunches just the slightest bit.
"I'm going abroad next semester," Kento says, suddenly, and you feel as though your feet have been swept out beneath you, but you manage to keep your pace.
"What? Where?" you blurt, and curse yourself for the knee jerk reaction. You're happy for him—almost as much as you want to grab him by the shoulders and glue him to your side, forever.
He clears his throat. "Malaysia. It's an international law program."
You process, for a moment. You see him glancing at you sideways, like he's anxiously waiting your reaction.
You smile, a little forced, but mostly genuine.
"Wow... that's amazing! You're going to do such cool things. And I know you've always wanted to go there."
A beat. You're getting closer and closer to the campus entrance. You hope your suitemates aren't home. You need to detox with a joint and music that is far too loud.
"It's just for the next semester. They have a full year program, but I..." he trails off, and you think for a moment he's going to say something else, something heavier: he seems to decide against it. "I thought I may get homesick."
You get a vision, suddenly—tanned and smoothened by the summer sun, returning to campus with a softer heart and a stronger mind; and you see Kento, and you hug him; and maybe enough time has passed that he will hug you back.
(Don't you know that he would, always? You do, don't you?)
"Well, it's a once-in-a-lifetime experience," you say, as you turn the corner onto the last block before campus. You smile, and it's full, and real. "And everything will be waiting for you when you come back, anyway."
You say it a little like you're trying to convince yourself, and you're sure Kento hears it—he gives you a funny look, as you're approaching the campus gates. It makes your stomach twist anxiously, waiting for his response. Then he smiles back at you, and it's full. And real.
"Hopefully," he says, finally. You stop in front of the gates and stare at each other for a moment. Then, you sigh.
"Thank you so much for walking me, Kento. Get home safe."
He lingers a second, like he hasn't heard you—then, he blinks, and seems to snap back into reality. He swallows, nodding.
"Of course. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You know he's watching you when you step through the gate—you know he'll watch you until you're out of sight. He always does. And this time, against your better judgement, you turn around, and you catch him. You smile, and you can't really tell—but you think he smiles back.
When you get back to your room, you sit in the darkness. The campus hums outside your window, still awake despite the night.
Your fear is still there. It sits with you tonight, but it is less a shadow than a veil, a shawl, and it wraps around your shoulders and keeps you warm. You accept it and it cradles you—lies you down, strokes your head, until you fall asleep.
When you wake up, it has all but left you, dispersed in the air to remain fragmented, forever. You breathe it in, and it tickles your lungs, crawls warm along your spine—clears the fog in your head, and lets you be.
haiiiii guys…. sorry for being inactive!!! Im actually moving states in a few days and it’s been hectic packing up the house >_<
currently i have the part two of cherry waves in the works… i know y’all probably want a gentle dissolve chap 5 more but i need some space from that story cuz idk what happens next😭 like i know what’ll happen in chap 6 (the end) but i’m not sure how to get there… dw itll come soon trust.
How it feels to ask a friend to do an activity with you even though you Know both of you will enjoy it and they've never been mean about doing it with you before and you'll both have a great time
Hi how many part do you think “a gentle dissolve” will have??
hiiiiii i think its gonna have two more parts—i know how its gonna end but im not sure what to write for the next chapter so it may take a while😭😭 thank u for reading anon!!!! hope u enjoyed :3
read chapter three here! // read chapter five here!
jjk masterlist
pairings: choso x reader, kento x reader, toji x reader
wc: 6k
chapter tags: SMUTTTTT, angst, ‘unrequited’ love, college au, frat au
content warnings: SMUT, toji says mean mean things and is a general asshole, choso is pretty mean too, sex with (kind of) imbalanced power dynamics, mentions of substance use
notes: PHEW! this was by far the most fun chapter to write. i hope this doesn't disappoint any toji fans... i felt it was only the natural progression for him... </3. there will be two more parts... enjoy! sorry this took so long, holidays got the best of me >_<
p.s. this is not proofread so excuse typos!!! heh
song inspo: master of none - beach house; entombed - deftones; mein - deftones
The house was too quiet.
Typically, there was at least one voice echoing off the thin walls—on the phone, raging about some game, shouting at the tv screen. Choso had really hated it at first, but soon the sounds became apart of the noise. The absence of them now made everything feel far too still.
And still is good. Still is peaceful and calm. But life is constant motion, Choso knows that—so, he knows that what still really means, is waiting for the shake.
He turned on the tv, to fill the silence. Kento was sitting in the chair by the window with his headphones on, so Choso didn't worry about bothering him. Something was clearly on his friend's mind—but when he'd asked about it earlier, the blonde had just shook his head and smiled sort of sadly, so Choso let it go.
(It seems like no one wants to tell him the truth anymore. Guess he better let that go, too.)
When Choso left your place a few nights ago, he was in good spirits. Or, he tried to be, because he knew he should be—you were smiling at him, laughing, and things were almost normal. Almost. And that almost; it nagged him. Incessantly.
Something had been knocked off kilter inside him. It leaked a film over his eyes, making him see things wrong, feel things wrong. When he tried to focus too hard on it his body felt like all the parts were screwed on incorrectly.
And he wanted so desperately to speak to you: he just couldn't get himself to send the message.
Instead, he'd taken to sending you photos of things that reminded him of you—a flower on a walk, the disgusting piece of hair he'd found in his dining hall lunch, the free chips he found in the vending machine slot after he bought a chocolate bar.
(Choso's not sure what the correlation between those things and you is, but they reminded him of you all the same.)
You liked the photos. You didn't say much else.
You'd finally sent him one of your own this morning—the sunrise, which you accompanied with a message: the birds are singing, it's beautiful.
It made his heart swell so uncomfortably, he made the panicked decision to not respond. Fucking idiot.
Why was Choso even doing this? He wasn't sure. It's not as though these were strange things to do with friends, but he could not deny that this ritual he'd taken to, and now roped you into, felt a lot like courting.
But then he'd think about Yuki, and how he did not, indeed, do this with her. There were a few time she'd sent pictures of herself, and he would heart them and tell her she looked beautiful. Sometimes he sent back a photo of his own, but not often.
(So it was not "courting", then. Something else? But what else?)
In truth, Choso had texted Shoko before he'd gone to see you that night, and begged for her advice. So, it wasn't really his idea.
What should I do? he'd asked: at that point, you hadn't spoken since he'd caught you outside the library, and the distance between you felt so unfathomable he was beginning to think it might be easier (less painful) to just cut it completely. As dystopian as that sounded.
shoko
just go talk to her in person. say everything you wanna say and go from there
She'd typed for a little after, like she wanted to say something else but didn't know if it was the right idea. Eventually she seemed to decide it was not, and that was all the advice Choso received.
Say what I wanna say. Much easier said than done, he'd thought.
Then, he drafted the text to you—which took him ten minutes, all just to land on the stupidly simple thing he ended up sending you.
When you opened the door you looked adorable, in your pajamas and that dumb apron you wore every time you cooked—makes me feel professional, you said, when he teased you about it. And you seemed happy to see him, even if it was a tentative happiness, which Choso could not explain but accepted, because it was better than nothing.
Things were going well. You accepted his apology, you even joked with him. You agreed to spend more time with him. You agreed to allow things to be normal.
Choso wasn't really watching the movie, even though he'd been the one to pick it. You were close to him in a way he hadn't ever noticed before. He could feel the heat coming off your body.
It surprised him, how much he wanted to hold you.
"I gotta go to the bathroom," Choso'd blurted, and stood before you could say anything. He left his phone on the couch.
When he came back something was wrong. It was obvious, mostly because he could see you were trying to pretend everything was fine—there's a certain smile you give, when you're placating. And you told him in that sweet voice that you were tired.
You're not, Choso wanted to say. You're lying, liar, liar.
"That's fine." He smiled at you, yawned for effect. "We can finish it another time."
His phone, on the cushion beside him. Huh—hadn't it been closer to him before? You shift, and he reaches for it.
The screen lights up: he's got a message from Yuki. She wants him to come over. She misses him.
It feels good to be wanted. Missed.
"I'll head out, then. See you tomorrow? Or—soon? No pressure."
And then nothing. And then the photos.
And now, to top it all off, Choso was avoiding Yuki. He'd gone to her place that night and they'd slept together—it was good, but Choso's heart wasn't in it. She didn't seem like she noticed.
He did the thing he always said he wouldn't do, and left before she woke up the next morning.
And that had been it. She texted him since then: something about how he didn't know what he wanted, something that hurt him enough to forget the exact wording. He hadn't checked, but wouldn't be surprised to find he was blocked.
The backdoor opens, and in comes Toji, tailed by the girl he's brought over. She's tall, and her hair is cut in this sharp-edged pixie that makes her look a little boyish. She's cute. Choso can see why Toji likes her. That sort of chick seems to flock right to the guy, for reasons Choso can, reluctantly, understand. He's surprised she's leaving—it's almost 9pm, and they typically just 'stay over', anyhow.
Kento looks over his shoulder when their roommate enters. Choso can't read the expression on his face but feels the tension anyway. He thinks they might be arguing about something, but it's always a little hard to tell with Kento. He can hold a grudge like no other.
Toji and his girl make the room smell like weed. Choso doesn't mind—he's actually a little jealous. Smoking makes him think of you so he hasn't done it (as frequently) in the past few days.
She leaves. He gives her a little kiss on the way out. Choso knows she'll probably be back.
When the front door closes, Kento pauses a second, and then turns around completely. And Toji is giving Kento a smile that Choso just knows means something bad—he watches the two of them and swears he can feel the temperature steadily climbing.
"Are you guys good?" he finally asks, nervously—it seems to break the vow of silence, but does nothing to dissipate the air pressure.
Toji lumbers into the living room, leaning against the arm of a chair. He crosses his arms, and his eyes land strikingly on Choso—the hairs on his arms stand up. Something is happening here that Choso is not privy to. Fear swirls in his gut. He glances at Kento and is even more unnerved to find his friend looking angry.
"Oh, yeah, we're good. Kento's just in my business."
Toji's head swivels to face the mentioned. Choso watches frozen, from the couch.
"Don't worry, man. Our mutual friend knows we aren't exclusive." Kento's eyes go a little wide at that, and Choso's heart hammers—what the hell is going on?
"Toji," Kento starts, like a warning, and Toji laughs, dark and heavy.
"What? Worried he's gonna get mad? I would think you wouldn't care, considering," he says, casually, and Choso realizes they're talking about him, now—he wants to speak up, but feels like he would be disturbing some sort of performance, a drama scripted just for him. Kento bristles and looks like he wants to stand, but stays seated.
"You must hate him. He's just ungrateful, ain't he? She might as well be on her goddamn knees for that idiot, and you're—"
Then, Kento does stand.
And Choso feels like his ribs are getting smaller, encroaching on his pulsating heart. And he almost understands—almost, almost.
He almosts everything, doesn't he?
"Oh, getting up? You gonna fight me for real this time?" Toji squawks, and he pushes off the couch, squaring his shoulders to make more evident the breadth of his back. He steps close enough to Kento that Choso thinks to get in the middle of it, stop them from actually getting physical—but his legs are still.
"I fucked her, did you know that? She was screaming my fucking name. I bet you'd kill for a chance at that, huh? Bet you'd kill for a chance just to watch."
Kento's arms look like they're trembling.
"You are..." Kento hisses, and the venom in his voice is really what sends Choso over the edge, "Truly, you are the most selfish, disgusting man, I have ever met."
The room is deathly still. Choso's body is numb, his mind entirely blank, until suddenly all the sensation rushes back. His skin feels like it's on fire.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he finally blurts, and stands, inching closer. Toji moves back a little, but the tension between them is still palpable—and Choso is still disturbed by the menace in Toji's eyes, the indifferent lean to his smile.
Because he knows, he knows. He knows what they're talking about. Who—he knows, he knows that it's you.
And maybe he asks because he wants to feel it; wants to be overcome with that nauseating envy. Wants that sick thrill of being so righteously angry, vindictive and emotional and cruel: he wants to be allowed to be cruel.
"Toji," Kento warns, again, but it's almost like no one has heard it, almost like he hasn't said it at all.
Toji scoffs. His grin makes Choso ill.
"Is it really that you don't want her? Or is it something else?"
Choso clenches his jaw.
"A sweet thing like that, just waiting for you. And somehow, you pass her up, every damn time."
Toji laughs.
"Only makes sense she'd get driven into the arms of someone like me. You know, someone selfish, disgusting. Shame being so respectful got you nowhere, Kento."
"Shut the fuck up," Kento bites: but then Choso looks to him, and he's at once infuriated and despaired by the guilt he finds, in Kento's hard set eyes, his frowning mouth.
It makes Choso's arms move without thinking, and he pins Toji to the wall, his forearm pressed hard into his throat, his hand gripping the fabric of his shirt in a fist.
"Don't talk about her like that," he says, far too loudly—and Toji just laughs, again, even as it sounds desperate and floundering.
"God, you're fuckin' pathetic. You and your cuck."
A second. Toji's breath is heavy and mocking; Choso can hear his own pants, too—panicked, terrified.
He lets Toji go, shoves him hard into the wall one last time. He doesn't want to look at Kento, but he does: his head hurts when he sees he is already staring at him. Kento’s eyes are like glass and they seem to beg Choso, silently.
(Forgive me, forgive me. It wasn't on purpose. I wish I could stop.)
Then, Choso grabs his phone, and heads out the door.
You're folding laundry when you hear the knock on your door.
You don't answer immediately—you were pretty sure one of your suitemates was in, and you weren't expecting anyone, so you thought it must've been a guest of theirs.
But you hear no movement, and a few seconds later, the knocks sound again. You stand, calling to see if anyone else is home: it seems your suitemate left without telling you. Rude.
That does not address the problem of the sudden guest, though. And at that point, the knock sounds again, and you're ready to tell them to stop fucking knocking, or get away—
"It's me. I know you're home, I still have your location. Please, let me in."
Fuck. What? Why is Choso here?
And why does he sound like that? His voice is thick and a little shaky, like his throat's straining against something tight.
You rush to open the door.
"Choso? What are you doing here?" you greet, sounding as confused as you are. His face is scrunched up and your stomach drops at his eyes: they're dark, and hard, like he's angry, and he's angry at you.
He steps around you, into your apartment. He stands there for a second, like he's expecting to hear something confirming that someone else is home.
But there's nothing: just the sound of your own breathing, which becomes more and more labored as you await his words. You wrap an arm around yourself and watch Choso turn to face you. There's another emotion there, now—your heart aches.
"Did you fuck Toji?"
Your mouth falls open.
"I—what?" You probably should have waited to speak, thought about it a little more, but it's tumbling out before you can stop. "What? Who told you that?"
Choso's jaw twitches. You squeeze yourself a little harder. "Why are you lying?"
Your face burns. "I'm not lying, I just—I don't even—"
He interrupts you—he's hardly ever done that before. "You are, you're lying, right to my face. And I know you are. Stop it."
Your jaw is agape but no words come out. Choso is glaring at you so harshly you feel your eyes glazing over, blood rushing to your cheeks. You feel, for the first time, utterly humiliated under his gaze.
"He told me," he says, finally. You want to scream.
"He told me all about it. How you—god, why would you do that? Why would you do this to me?"
What?
You feel like the world is spinning. Your mouth is a little dry. You try to ignore the mortification of knowing Toji has chewed and spat you out so violently after you opened yourself to him, but you know you never should've trusted his cold hands to hold anything, let alone something so sacred. (It was nice while it lasted?)
"Wha—do this, to you? What does that even mean?" Your voice is weak even as you try to fortify it with shock. Choso turns, and sits hard onto the couch, his head in his hands.
You float to him like a ghost, cursed to haunt the man she died yearning for.
"Choso," you start, kneeling tentatively in front of him. You don't want to get too close. Your eyes are hot. "Choso, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't think—"
He laughs, and the sound is cruel. The words die in your throat when he raises his eyes to meet yours.
"You're lying, again! You just keep fucking lying to me." You feel helpless.
"You did it on purpose. You knew it would make me upset, but you did it anyway? For what? To make me jealous? To get my attention?"
Your breath hitches. Your tears turn to ice.
You push yourself up on your knees and stand above him, your bottom lip trembling in something between rage and surrender.
"You really think I would fuck someone just to make you upset? How little do you think of me?"
Choso’s surprised—momentarily, before that look comes back, and he scoffs.
"You're just mad, that I have someone else in my life. You're mad, because I can't be at your beck and call anymore. Whatever. But then you go and fuck someone I live with? And what about Kento? Stringing him along just so you can feel better about yourself?"
You want desperately to lunge at him, claw at his chest until you hit his bleeding heart. You step away before you can.
"Every fucking thing I do is not about you. Why does it even bother you, anyway? You don't own me. And you have no right to treat me like I owe you anything—because if I owe you some sort of loyalty, some sort of unspoken rule, then you owe it to me too."
Silence. Then, Choso stands, and he's so close to you that you can hear his breathing.
"I knew it was about her. You're jealous. You're jealous."
His tone is a little wicked. You swallow hard. You can't think of anything to say. You swear he moves a little closer and you want to slap him across his beautiful face. It's so quiet that the sound of blood rushing in your ears is almost deafening.
"Say something," Choso says, but it lacks the cold fire he was spewing just a moment ago. It makes all your old wounds threaten to open up and bleed into their bandages.
"Why do you want me to be jealous?" you finally ask. His expression falters. "Why are you trying to hurt me?"
Choso's breath stutters. You want to fall into him, but you're repulsed at the same time.
(I'm trying to level the field, Choso wants to say. I'm trying to make you as angry and hurt as I am, so that you can feel my pain. How else can I tell you I love you?)
But he says none of that. He says nothing at all.
And then, he sees it—the way you start melting, under his brimstone gaze. Your watery eyes droop and your hard mouth falls and his face melts a little with you.
"Of course I am," you sigh, defeated. "Of course I'm jealous. You know I am. I don't understand why you have to be so cruel about it."
God. He has been cruel, has he? He watches the first of your tears start to fall. You reach up to your face and wipe at them helplessly. He stands there, arms tight at his sides, eyes moving frantically over you.
"I didn't mean to be." A lie. "I’m sorry. I just—."
"Thinking about someone else touching you like that. Seeing you like that. Thinking about him, with you. He's disgusting. He talked about you like a piece of fucking meat. I wanted to kill him. And it made me even more angry that it wasn't just because of what he said."
You're still crying, but you look up at that. You must see something in Choso's eyes because you sigh, so pretty and tragic. Like the beautiful grieving wife in a melodramatic play.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't think you cared enough to be hurt by it."
Your voice—it makes Choso's body feel like it's not his own. He takes a step closer without realizing and he's backing you toward the wall. But you don’t stop him; you let him guide you, until you hit the plaster and he’s so close he can feel your breath fanning over his face.
He raises his hand to your cheek. His thumb glides across the curve of your undereye, smearing the sparkle of your tears. Your bottom lip trembles at the touch and he can see you're trying to stop crying—he wishes he was brave enough to tell you it doesn't matter, you're a beautiful crier. You're beautiful all the time.
Instead, he kisses you.
Your tears crest on the edge of Choso's lips. You taste like mint, and a little salt.
It's you that pulls away first. He almost chases you—doesn't want to have to stop kissing you, because then he will have to look at your face.
But he does. And your eyes are wide and glassy, your lips are parted, trembling; but, your hands are sliding up his chest, to his face. Your palms are soft against his cheeks.
He kisses you again. You kiss him back this time—really kiss him. His tongue licks into your mouth. Choso feels like thousands of needles are scratching gingerly at his skin. He makes a quiet sound into your lips, and you swallow it desperately.
Your hands curl into fists at the collar of his shirt and you tug him closer, closer closer. The gentle brush of your knuckle against his throat makes his breath hitch.
And then, you pull away again. Your grip on his shirt loosens but doesn't fall completely. Choso's gaze flicks to your kiss-bitten lips, and then back to your eyes, almost blank with desire. (Something else, too. Something else.)
"Choso," you say, finally. Your voice is shaky. He knows you want to tell him this is a bad idea, that you should talk about it first. He couldn't think of anything in the world he'd like to do less.
He moves in to you, brushing his nose against yours, caging you in with his shoulders.
"Tell me to stop," he rasps—he curses internally at how desperate he sounds, how it comes out sounding more like begging than command. He can feel your rapid breathing, your chest rising and falling against his.
You shake your head. When you speak it's clear you're on the brink of something beautiful. (Something horrible.)
"I can't," you whisper, and you hold his face like he's going to fall through your fingers. Like sand. Your words wash over him and soak into his blood, his veins. His bones vibrate, stuck in limbo—between lunging at you, running out the door, and something third and secret that he cannot bring himself to unearth.
"Yes, you can. You won't," Choso says, and even he is unsure why he's said it—though, really, he knows exactly why, and you do, too.
Your eyes leave his. Your fingers are gentle against his temple.
"Do you... want to stop?"
(No, never, I want you in my soul, nestled in my ribs—yes, stop, stop, don't you know things can never be good again? Don't you know I'm losing you? That I've lost you, now?)
Choso sighs heavy, like you'll be able to hear all his inner thoughts, all his secrets, just in a breath.
"No. I don't."
You look back into his eyes. God, you're beautiful—like a ghost. Or an angel. Or a star.
"Then take me to my room," you say, and someone else might think you were demanding, but Choso is not someone—and he knows, in the painful softness of your voice, that you are offering.
Choso takes you to your room. You lock the door—your suitemate could come back any second, you say, lacking any real panic. Neither of you bother turning the light on.
And you let him lie you on the bed, and you stare up at him with those velvety eyes. You kiss him, like you're trying to eat him whole, and he fights back because it is you that will be swallowed, not the other way around. Your hands tangle in his hair and loosen it from its rubberband. It falls over his forehead, shields the two of you from the world.
He pulls away, slowly—watches the spit that slinks between your lips and his. His stomach is so knotted he's afraid it will never be set straight again.
You tug a little, at the root of his hair. Choso's breath stutters, and he sees the glimmer in your eye—I've got you. You're under my spell now. And Choso is almost afraid of the shadow that grips him, then. That's not how it's supposed to be.
It is you that is under him, after all.
He surges forward, captures you in a kiss he hopes sears you. He bites you a little, so you wince—when you tip your head back to escape him, a bead of red blooms on the delicate flesh of your bottom lip.
"Do you want me to touch you?" Choso rasps, into your neck. He puts his tongue flat against your jugular and goes up, up, up, breathing hot against your skin. He swears he can feel your flesh throbbing to the beat of your pounding heart.
"You have to tell me if you do. I can't, unless you do."
(Humiliate yourself for me. Abandon yourself for me. Don't you love me?)
You make a sound almost like a whine, and Choso wants to see what other sounds you can make, wants to know all the sounds you can make, the ones you will make only for him, him, him.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he finds himself whispering, nosing the curve of your jaw, body closing in on top of you. You like it, when he calls you that. He always thought so but now he knows for sure—he hears your shaky exhale, feels your grip on his bicep tighten. It makes him feel powerful, to have that control over you. It's a shameful power, but a power all the same.
"I want you," you finally say. Your mouth is right next to his ear.
"Please touch me, Choso." He feels like he's dying every second, and coming back to life the next.
Choso knows there is a lot he has done to wrong you, but disobeying your watery plea will not be one of them.
"That's it. Slow down, slow... just like that, like that... don't want you to hurt yourself, sweetheart."
You're above him, but it doesn't matter. He surrounds you, cages you, embraces you, from every angle. Your hips burn with the stretch as you sink down on him, and your palms are flat on his chest, on his soft skin—are there freckles there you've never seen?
You're trying not to look in his eyes. What you find there when you do is devastating; he is devastating, and so so beautiful, the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Like the beach on a cloudy day, when the sky makes the sea grey, and it colors everything dreamy black and white. Like the sunlight through murky blinds in the morning. Like the woozy disorientation of being too drunk, the too-wide smile you wear when you've forgotten there is a tomorrow.
Choso's hands squeeze tight at your hips. His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is parted, cheeks and chest flushed pink. It soothes a terrible ache to see him just as desperate as you know you look, as you know you are.
"Choso," you whine, softly, when your pubic bone grinds into his, and his stomach flexes, his exhale becomes a quiet groan. You can feel his steady pulse, throbbing inside you; inside you, he's inside you, this is as close as you can possibly get, but you are somehow so far from him.
He says your name like an exhale.
"I know, I know," he breathes, and something in the way he says it tells you that maybe he wants it to hurt, just a little. Something to remember him by. "I'm here. I'm here."
You lean forward into him. Your forehead rests against Choso's collarbone, your hands slither to grab at his shoulders. One of his hands on your lower back, now—the other pinching at your hip. His body is so warm.
You force yourself to move up, off of him, and the loss brings out a ruinous sigh. You hold your breath when you let him back in; you feel so full that you're almost afraid. But it's not just his size that's taking the air from your lungs, because it wasn't like this with Toji—this, it's almost unbearable, so good and it pierces your heart every time he touches that sensitive spot inside you, makes your eyes ache to spill.
Choso doesn't say anything else. You don't even have to raise your head to know he's trying to stay quiet, but you do—you kiss him before you can make eye contact. He returns with equal fervor; all teeth and tongue, licking into his mouth, biting at yours.
You can't help the moan you let out when he starts moving up into you. You wanted a little power, a little control—a hopeless endeavor, because it just feels too good to surrender, into strong arms, even if you know they will always loosen their grip sooner or later.
"Just let me take care of you," Choso says, suddenly, and your body relaxes before you can think. He kisses you again. "I'll make you feel so good, sweetheart. Promise. I promise."
You're putty in his hands. He grips your hips like he wants to bruise you, the intricate lines of his fingerprints engraved into your skin forever, for no one to see.
"Fuck," you cry, trying to muffle yourself into his neck. Choso's breath is almost panicked—it fans across your jaw, his nose wedged against the corner of your mouth. "Feels so good, Cho."
He likes when you say his name—you knew he would. A hum that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed groan vibrates against your skin.
"Yeah? Good?"
You nod, burying your head into him. Choso wraps his arms around you and fucks up into you harder, like he's trying to prove something to you, or himself. It doesn't matter much to you in the moment.
"Tell me, tell me how it feels," he rasps, licking at your neck. You press your lips together to hide the noise you fear would expose you beyond return.
(As if 'return' is still possible.)
"Fuck, don't—don't do that. Don't get quiet." Choso moves one hand from your waist and laces it into your hair, gripping at the scalp just tight enough to bring your head back. The moan you let out sounds almost like a yelp. Your hand comes to cover your mouth instinctively.
His eyes flash a little dark. Something in your stomach gets hot, hot hot.
"Stop fuckin' doing that," he hisses. He uses his other hand to move yours, away from your mouth.
He swallows and seems to feel a little guilty, but you can't think too hard on it—he stops moving suddenly, and the sustained fullness makes it hard for you to think.
"'m sorry." Choso reaches for you, your face, takes your cheek in his hand. "Sorry."
You try to catch your breath, blinking at him owlishly.
"It's okay," you say, without even having to think, like an instinct. "I liked it."
He stares at you. And something gets a little sad in his eyes, but then it ices over and it's all a little cold. Goosebumps tickle your spine and you're so turned on it almost hurts.
"I'm not gonna keep going unless you let me hear you," Choso says, finally—and his delivery is deceptively warm for the cruelty of his words.
He doesn't give you the chance to respond; you're on your stomach before you know it, and he's grinding against your ass, wrists pinned at your back. You feel yourself squeeze around nothing and you whine into your sheets.
"What is it, sweetheart?" Choso almost coos, voice horribly tender, even for the way he's piecing you apart. "You gotta tell me what you want. Or I can't give it to you."
"Please," you say, almost before he's finished speaking. "Please, I want you to make me feel good, want you to take care of me. Please."
You can see him over your shoulder. You watch his face contort into something you can't recognize, his gaze going loose; and his hands, moving to hold your hips, when he slides into you again.
It's slower than before, but it feels like he's even deeper inside you now, and every time he pulls out he's stealing the blood from your veins, the fibers from your muscle. He slides all the way in and stays there, waiting for you to get desperate enough to move on your own—it takes all of a few seconds, and you're grinding back into him, eyes closed, face nuzzling into the mattress.
"Fuck, keep doing that," Choso groans—it seems he's lost any desire to keep quiet, now. He grinds back into you, moving out of you just enough to create a little friction, but not enough to really part himself.
You say something; you're not quite sure what. He folds his body over you, arm sliding under your stomach to hold you to him, mouth hot against your neck.
"You getting close?" His breath tickles your ear. You nod, gasping softly to the rhythm of your hips. If your eyes were open you would've seen the way he was looking at you, but it's probably best that they were not.
"I know, baby. I can—can feel it, feel you getting tighter around me. I want you to cum so bad, so bad. Can you do that, for me?"
Choso presses a wet kiss to your cheekbone. You mewl and reach back desperately, clawing at his back—he takes your hand, laces his fingers with yours, presses it into the mattress.
His hips start moving into yours with renewed passion. You're on fire, and he is both incinerator and extinguisher.
"Choso—" you cry, not knowing what else to say, not knowing anything else, just him, just him. "Oh, god, ohmygod—"
Your vision swims with stars, and your head goes underwater; you flounder, like a fish with no gills, before suddenly your lungs are filled with air, and you feel hot tears soaking into the sheet beneath you, and Choso is heavy above you and his hand holds yours so tight your fingers tickle with static.
When Choso collapses onto the bed, he isn't looking at you. His face is toward the ceiling and his eyes are shut, pants still puffing from his swollen lips, a few hairs sticking to his forehead. Your own body feels like it's been doused in honey but you find it is not just that which prevents you from moving closer.
You stare at him. After a few minutes, his breathing evens out, and his head falls to face you. You pretend your eyes have been closed, and hope he hasn't caught you.
"You okay?" he says. The sweat is drying on your skin, and you feel cold.
"Yeah," you whisper. Your open your eyes and wish you hadn't.
Nothing else. You suddenly want very much to cry.
Instead, you turn, with much effort—you lie on your back and starfish, arm resting on top of his chest. You're surprised when Choso grabs for your hand there, even though his grip on it is weak.
"You can sleep here, if you want to," you offer, even though parts of you really wish he could just disappear forever, right now. You force yourself to turn again to him and find he's still staring at you; the look in his eyes makes your organs ache and shiver.
"Okay." He smiles at you.
His voice is too soft. It's horrible. It's all horrible. It's all ruined, isn't it? It's all gone. Oh god.
You curl into his chest. Choso wraps his arms around you. He holds you so tight it almost hurts.
You want to say something else—you should say something else, but nothing feels right, nothing is enough.
You want to kiss him. But that doesn't feel right, either. You realize with horror—the comfort you have always found in Choso is not entirely gone, but some has been replaced: some has morphed, into something like repulsion, a want so painful it becomes a hate, a want that is not really a want, in the end, as much as a need, and to need someone else is to surrender a part of yourself, a part you had not willingly given.
You lie there with the sick, sick certainty, that this will be the last time he holds you like this. The last time you find solace in the warmth of his body, the smell of his skin.
He's asleep before you are. Your eyes only start to close when the birds begin to sing.
read chapter two here! // read chapter four here!!
jjk masterlist
pairings: kento x reader, toji x reader, choso x reader
wc: 6.2k
chapter tags: SMUTTTTT, angst, ‘unrequited’ love, college au, frat au
content warnings: SMUT, toji is an asshole, reader kind of uses kento but not really it's complicated, unrequited love
notes: so. this chapter may complicate things for ya'll... even i don't know who i'm rooting for atp (i kind of do, but lemme not show my bias lol). i hope ya'll enjoy!! there are gonna be like two more parts after this i think... i'm beyond excited to write chapter 4 like some crazy shit is going to happen and i hope u love it
It shouldn't have been so difficult for him—it's just numbers and equations, and he's usually good at that. Unfortunately, he absolutely bombs the exams. Has bombed the previous two; the third and penultimate one is a week from now, but he would rather die than study for it.
Even so, he definitely should have been forcing himself to do just that, on Sunday morning. (Sundays were typically his day to do all the work he did not want to do.)
But instead, he'd volunteered to drive you home.
Kento could tell you were quite upset. He hadn't even meant to grab your hand on the couch—not really, but he saw the look on your face, and felt powerful warmth surge in his chest.
Selfishly, Kento wanted Choso to see how he was comforting you. How he was there, when Choso was not. But that was a bit too far. (He knew that would've made you uncomfortable, anyhow.)
"Do you wanna get some breakfast?" Kento asked, once you'd both gotten into his car. He felt the tips of his ears get hot when he noticed the empty Redbull still in his cup holder. You didn't seem to see, or care.
"I'm okay. I'm not really hungry," you said, and he'd sighed. You both put your seatbelts on and he started the car.
"Are you sure? We can do drive through, or order for pickup somewhere. My treat."
You smiled at him, and seemed to think hard about it. At the end of the day, who says no to free food?
The two of you ate breakfast in the parking lot of your dorm building. Kento's was a little bland, but yours was quite good—you let him have a bite. You seemed a little like you didn't want to be alone yet, and so he stayed with you for as long as you wanted him to. You gave him a new show to watch (and spoiled the entire first season).
You gave him a hug before you left, and thanked him—you didn't specify for what exactly, and but the way you said it made him think you meant far more than just the food.
Anytime, he'd replied, thinking himself some faux-suave bossanova, and hating himself for it. You just smiled.
Kento had always felt that you understood him. He felt, in a way that sometimes alarmed him, very seen: exposed, to your lovely eyes.
You'd had a class together freshmen year, before Choso introduced you. You sat a few rows in front, and so he would stare at the back of your head. You didn't raise your hand very much but when you did it was always to say something very smart, and usually a little contrarian. There were a few times Kento'd tried to appeal to you, get you to notice him—agreeing with you in group discussion, adding onto your points just to say your name. It didn't seem to do much.
(Once you'd turned over your shoulder, and smiled at him. That was it.)
Choso introduced you to Kento before any of the others. They'd been walking to the dining hall—back in sophomore year, when they still went there most nights.
He doesn't remember what they were talking about, but then he saw Choso's face change, and his eyes fixed on something in front of them.
Someone: you. You greeted Choso with a restrained but ecstatic smile. Kento knew if he hadn't been standing there, you would've hugged, like you usually did. (He'd seen you with Choso many times before. Many, many times.)
"Kento," Choso had said, a little nervously. "This is my good friend. I've been meaning to introduce you guys."
He said your name. You turned to Kento, blinked a few times like you were trying to place him. He knew you wouldn't remember him—even if he wished you would.
"It's very nice to meet you," Kento said, saving you any possible embarrassment. He'd known for a while now that a little white lie was often more necessary than it was hurtful.
(Especially if it was him that was hurt by it.)
You were very polite with him, smiling shyly, rocking back and forth on your heels. You said something about not wanting to keep them, and Choso insisted you were not. He invited you to eat dinner with them and you'd accepted—only after glancing at Kento for approval, for reassurance that you were not intruding, which he gave you in a heartbeat.
Late that night, he and Choso were doing work at the frat's kitchen table, which had quickly become their routine. He could tell his friend wanted to say something, and when he finally did, Kento wished he had kept it to himself.
"You know, it wasn't on purpose, but... I did kinda want you to meet her first," Choso admitted. "I want her to know all of you—it's not like she's, you know—I don't need to protect her. I just..."
He looked up at Kento. He hoped Choso could not see the discomfort on his face.
"She's... very important, to me. And I trust you. I feel like she'll like you the most, anyway."
Kento stared at the sharpened pencil in his hand and wanted to stab himself with it. What a coward he was. Sitting here, listening to Choso gush of how trustworthy he was when really all he could think of was how beautiful you were, how he wished you would approach him looking so lovely, how he would make you smile and laugh, the way he saw you laugh with Choso when neither of you knew he was looking.
He forced a smile.
"I understand. Well, thank you. She seems great."
Kento knew you loved Choso. It was clear, from the moment he'd seen you together. And he was pretty sure Choso loved you, too—maybe not in the way you deserved, but love you he did. It was all quite obvious.
Without even knowing it, you were turning Kento into someone he wasn't—someone angry, someone violent, or at least someone who wanted to be. He watched you watch Choso, watch him with another girl, and he wanted to storm across the room and throw the fucking idiot into the wall, bash his head open.
(Would you want him then? Would you choose him, then?)
How could Choso not see? How could he not see you, yearning for him, breaking for him?
And how could you not see him? Kento, wanting you in the way he knew you wished to be wanted. Wanting not just to pick you up and put you back together—but to hold you, while you pieced yourself whole again.
(But, didn't he want to break you too? Just a little? Just to know that he could?)
Kento is in the kitchen scrolling on his phone when Toji gets home. It's late, but he's stopped questioning Toji's erratic comings and goings. He was waiting for the kettle to boil; it screeches when the door opens.
"Toji," he greets, not bothering to look up. Toji grunts in response, opens the fridge. He pulls something out and moves to the microwave, beside Kento.
And then Kento smells something. It's so faint he almost writes it off—a breath of vanilla and the sky on a clear spring day and a little bit of weed, a breath of you. But Toji sees him falter.
The grin that claws at his stupid fucking mouth makes Kento's face go hard, his fingers tingle, aching to wrap into a fist and find their way to Toji's nose.
Kento stirs his tea.
"You went to see her?" he asks, as innocently as he can; he can hear the strain in his words, though, and knows Toji does too.
Toji puts his food in the microwave and presses a button. He leans his hands against the counter, so casual, so smug. It makes Kento furious.
"Wouldn't you like to know, old man?" Toji winks at him and Kento almost breaks the handle on his mug. He pours the steaming water into it and thinks briefly about tossing it on Toji's face.
"Stop fucking calling me that," he snaps. He feels his jaw twitch.
Toji is quiet for a second. Kento knows he could walk out right now, take his tea to the bedroom and try to calm down, try to process. But his feet will not move. Toji scoffs, tilts his head back and stares him down like he's just seen his future, like he knows something about Kento that he himself will not know for a long, long time.
"You know what the difference between us is?" Toji finally says. The microwave beeps but he does not move to open it. Kento grits his teeth.
Against all his intelligence, Kento bites.
"What? Other than the obvious?"
He takes a sip of his tea—it's still too hot, but he swallows it without any show of discomfort. Toji narrows his eyes and his grin only widens.
"Yeah. Other than the obvious."
"You think you're this righteous, fatherly, responsible young man. And you might be. But no one really knows for sure, do they? Not even you. Difference is, I know who I am. And I know what I'm not, too."
Kento's heart is pounding. His hand trembles just a little bit.
"You're wrong. I know who I am."
"And what's that, grandpa?"
"Certainly better than you."
Toji laughs. His eyes get dark.
"You think you're better than me? When you stand around, sniffing at her wounds like some pathetic fuckin' guard dog?"
Kento puts his mug down.
Toji leans in a little, taunting him. Kento's entire body feels like it's on fire.
"What a joke. You think you're staying loyal to Choso, licking at her boots like that? I bet you fuck her in your dreams all night long, like a fuckin' pervert—"
Kento shoves him hard. Toji's eyes go a little wide when his back hits the fridge; just for a split second. They stare at each other so hard it feels like the air is going to crack. Then, Toji laughs, so hard he folds over, and the dread that settles onto Kento turns his blood to thick, black ink.
Kento is panting. He takes a step back.
Then, another, until he's escaping the nightmare, into the sanctuary of his room.
When Kento sees you two days later, you're in the library, alone. He doesn't want to disturb you, but then you see him. He's a little relieved that you seem happy about the fact. He's happy to see you, too.
(He thinks about you, with Toji. His filthy fucking hands all over you. The way you might've sounded. Did you let him fuck you? Did you?)
(I could be better. I am better. Please see me.)
(Please, see me.)
"Are you leaving?" you asked, sliding your headphones off and around your neck. Kento had been studying for a few hours at that point and was looking forward to a little nap.
"I just got here." He smiles at you. "Would it be alright if I joined?"
He sits across from you and pretends to be doing work—really, he's scrolling on his Instagram, looking at clothes, anything that makes him seem busy. He looks up at you as many times as he can without being obvious.
You look a little drained, but otherwise alright. Still beautiful. Always beautiful.
Two hours and you decide you can't study a minute longer—the words are swimming on the page, you say, with a tired little smile that makes Kento laugh. He suggests you go get food together—he'll drive, of course. He's a little surprised when you say yes. It's not the first time you've hung out alone, but he hadn't anticipated you wanting to be around any of them very much, considering how hurt by Choso you clearly were.
(He thinks of Toji, and realizes that assumption had already been proven false. But maybe that was different.)
"Did you watch my show?" you ask him, when you're sitting in his car. You kept complaining about how hungry you were, so he decided you could just have your dinner together in the frat's driveway. You seemed a little worried about being spotted, so he reminded you that his windows were tinted. He wished that you didn't care.
Kento takes a bite of his food and swallows it down with his drink of choice—a root beer, a treat he afforded himself only on special occasions.
"Yes, I started it. I liked it."
You frown. "Oh, c'mon. You hated it, didn't you?"
Kento laughs, half out of the disbelief of being caught, and half because he knew you'd catch him.
"I did not hate it. If I'm being honest, the main character irritated me. That's my only gripe so far."
"I guess that's fair," you concede, though he can hear in your tone that you're disappointed. He hates to make you feel that way, but a part of him he loves that he can. "I didn't like her so much in the beginning, either. But if you stick with it I promise she gets better. Less whiny."
You talk a little bit more about the show, and then you start asking him things. What shows does he like? What movies? And does he like this song? This genre?
You knew he would, you say. I think about you, he hears. He wants you to say more. Would listen to you talk for hours.
And then you get a little quiet. It's in Kento's nature to fawn over you, so he asks you what's wrong the moment he notices you falter. You swallow and sigh, energy leaving you like a deflating balloon.
It's stupid, you say. It couldn't possibly be, he counters. You look up at him like you're going to cry; and god, how stunning are you? Kento massages at the sides of his neck.
"It's just... I forgot about everything, for a little," you finally admit, in such a small voice; and Kento just wants to kiss you stupid. You smile and your eyes get shinier.
"I miss him," you whisper. Kento's heart breaks, for a few different reasons. "I'm so angry, I can barely talk to him, barely look at him—but oh, it isn't fair. I know it isn't fair. It's not his fault."
You're making excuses. For Choso, for yourself. Kento thinks briefly that neither of you deserve that grace, but he suppresses it before the bitterness can blossom.
"Nothing is ever really fair," Kento manages, and the way you look up at him makes his chest liable to burst. "No one ever really means to hurt anyone. Not really. But it hurts all the same."
You give him a sad smile. There's a funny look in your eyes that makes his blood hot.
"That's deep, Kento. And mostly true."
You pick at your cuticles. Kento watches you in silence. The street is oddly empty; even in the later hours, there was always someone, walking their dog, smoking before bed. Nothing, tonight. It makes his proximity to you feel a little suffocating.
"Toji and I hooked up," you suddenly blurt, and Kento, for what may be the first time, knows he must look genuinely shocked. The surprise is not fake: he'd known already, but something about your voice confirming one of his worst nightmares makes his head fuzzy.
It makes him feel angry, all over again—makes his heart ice over then melt itself open, lying bare on a bed of sharp teeth.
"Why are you telling me all of this?" Kento hisses. He regrets his tone immediately—you jump, eyebrows turning up like he's really frightened you. The air in the car goes cold.
He folds after just a few seconds. (Pathetic.)
"I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that," he sighs. He can't look at you. He tries to say more but nothing comes out.
You're quiet. Kento is terrified that you're going to ask to get out.
"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I know you're just trying to be kind. You're always so kind to me, Kento."
Kento wants to die.
But when he finally turns to look at you, you're giving him an odd look that is not at all in tune with your tone of voice. And he gets a strange feeling, like you're not really sorry, like he shouldn't be either.
"Did I? Upset you, I mean."
The way you say it makes him feel the question is not as innocent as it should be. And Kento is intrigued, already following you along like you're leading him with a fuckin' carrot on a stick.
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Upset is not the right word. I just..."
You catch him where he falters. You wait a second, like you're afraid to speak, afraid to say what he knows you will:
"Is it... Toji? Or is it something else?"
Kento looks at you. Looks at you, into you, very hard. What is this game you're playing? What are the rules? And why doesn't he care whether or not he wins? Why does he not care that he knows he will lose? Knows that you know, too?
He swallows hard, stares straight ahead, like he's thinking.
"I don't like the idea of him... with you. He's not good for you."
You smile, but not in a way similar to what he's seen before. Something in it makes his stomach clench.
"I didn't know you care who I'm with."
(Stupid girl. You know I care. You know even if you don't think you do. This hurts. I want it to stop. Stop.)
Kento huffs. "I don't. Not particularly."
The words lack conviction and he's well aware. He's barely pretending anymore—he just won't be the one who crosses the threshold. No, that would make him bad. He wants to fall into it. Fall into you. How could he possibly be blamed for that?
When Kento looks back to you you're leaning against the arm rest that separates you. A flimsy, useless spatial divide that folds easily under you, leering toward him with a painfully enticing smile.
"What are you doing?" he says, weakly—his voice is too quiet, and gives him away.
"Nothing," you say, almost whisper. The feeling in Kento's gut is comparable to the way one might feel right before they drown.
"No. Stop it," Kento says, though it's too breathy to really mean what he wishes it did. He keeps his face steady despite the grin that spreads on your face. "Stop it."
You lean closer. Your arm is right up against his.
Kento says your name like a warning, and it has the opposite of its intended effect. You're so close now he can smell your perfume.
The same scent he smelled on Toji, that night. His gaze hardens but he keeps his eyes on you.
"We should stop," he tries, again. You blink up at him. "It's not a good idea."
Your lips touch his, just briefly. It burns. Kento's hands twitch to touch you but he somehow manages to keep them still.
"Stop me," you whisper. Your palms go flat on his chest and he leans into you. "If you really want to."
You kiss him, for real this time. Your mouth is so soft against his that Kento almost groans into it. You kiss him just once, and it's not intense, it's not open or sloppy. When you pull away Kento is full on drowning.
He grabs at your hands. They're warm and trembling when he kisses you again. He feels like he's in one of his dreams.
(But something is not quite right. His fantasy is far more than just attraction.)
"Wait, wait," Kento breathes, and pulls away from you—it's like you're the two attracted ends of a magnet, and the action requires much strength. "We have to stop, it's not—it's not good, not a good idea—"
You nose his cheek. His exhale stutters.
"Why not?"
He holds your hands tight. Can feel your fingers in his palms, but still it feels like you're holding him—holding his heart in your gentle grasp, toying with it even as you smile at him, so sweet, so tired.
"You don't want this," Kento says, finally. You pause, barely detectable, but he notices. "Not really. You're hurting. And you will regret this. I promise."
(It's not fair. Because he wants it, wants it so bad he almost physically hurts, denying himself, making you deny him. Not fair, not fair.)
You stare up at him. He tries to tell you with his gaze—tell you the truth that he would rather disintegrate than say with his mouth. He's not sure you understand.
Your eyes get soft and watery. Kento's afraid you're going to cry.
You wedge your head hesitantly into his chest. Your hair tickles his chin. He wraps his arms around you without thinking, letting go of your hands only to hold you as close as you allow.
"Take me home, Kento. Please."
Kento nods, eventually. He holds you until you let go on your own, and then he starts the car.
He opens the passenger door for you, like he always does. You hug him one more time, standing outside his car, in the parking lot of your dorm. I'm sorry, you say. He tells you there's nothing to be sorry for. He waits until you're inside to leave.
(You don't look back. You wouldn't dare.)
You have a recurring dream. You're always in a car—sometimes you're in the driver's seat, and sometimes you're stuck in the back. No one's ever at the wheel, if you're not.
The car is always going very fast and you are always very scared. You can never manage to get control, but nothing particularly bad ever happens; at least, you wake up before it does.
You're thinking about your dream in class, staring at the clock, willing it to hit 2:45. This is your last of the day—soon you'll be home, rotting, like you've been aching to do since the moment you left your room this morning.
The professor eyes you when another student is talking. This one always gets offended when he catches people obsessing over the time.
Feel lucky that I even came to class at all. you think, ignoring his glare. Asshole.
You wish you were in a car right now. Watching the horizon blur past you with no one at the steering wheel, feeling the fear, the adrenaline, the quiet acceptance of your fate.
You would take that over this—this perpetual bad dream that had become your everyday, the nightmare in which you were pathetically ensnared.
The thing with Kento confused you deeply. Far more than you were currently willing to admit.
(That look in his eyes. You hadn't seen it before. You didn't know it was there. You didn't know. You barely knew now.)
The thing with Toji was, graciously, far less confusing—but, logistically, it complicated things. And the thing with Choso was by far the most oblique, but in a very different way.
Kento and Toji made you think about yourself—how you felt, what you wanted, if you wanted anything at all. With Choso, your concern was him: why wasn't he asking you to hang out? Did he still think you were mad? Was he mad at you?
Granted, you didn't really want to see him, but the fact that he was the one pulling back hurt you more than you wanted it to.
(And, worst of all: was he still seeing Yuki? How much of his time was being taken by her? Was she replacing you?)
You get your answer, that night. Your phone lights up while you're cooking dinner—your suitemates are back tomorrow night, so you're making a big lasagna for the house as a welcome back gift. You missed them even as you enjoyed the free space.
It's Choso. You try not to get too excited at the message but you check it immediately anyway.
cho
hey :) r u busy?
you stare at the clock until the minute changes, and respond directly after.
you
not really, just making dinner
what's up?
He takes a little longer than you like to reply. You set the phone down and your joy turns bitter. The vegetables you're sautéing are going to burn if you're not careful.
You're eating when you finally read his reply.
cho
can i come over?
we should probably talk
Fuck. Your heart drops into your stomach and your appetite is all but lost. You're not sure what you wanted him to say, but certainly not that—it feels like you're watching a storm as it inches closer and closer, bringing the horizon. And you're staying defiantly put, planted right in its path.
you
sure
i'm just chilling so come whenever
The minutes tick by and you put away the rest of the lasagna, including the leftovers of your portion—quite a lot. The sudden nerves twisted your stomach up too much to eat.
Three knocks on your door. That's what he usually does. The sound gives you a rush of joy that crests in something like despair.
"Hey," Choso greets, and your heart gets uncomfortably large at the pink that frosts his cheeks. "It's really cold out."
You let him in. He hasn't been to your place in a while, and it's never been just you before—it feels strangely small with him there. You offer him lasagna and he tells you it's the best he's ever had.
Neither of you really want to talk about anything serious; you think he just doesn't want to make it awkward, but for you it's because you really did miss him. Being with him now reminds you of the way it used to be, before things became so knotted up.
"So," you finally say, when the air feels light enough. "What did you wanna talk about?"
Choso hesitates, then—you wait expectantly with a little smile, your eyebrow raised. He sighs.
"I just wanted to make sure we were okay. I know you said you weren't mad, but—" he pauses, swallowing and averting your eyes. "You haven't texted me since we talked. Which is fine, I know you're busy. I just..."
You again wish he would stop talking. But even as you do you ache to hear him flounder; it's not the way you want him to, but it soothes the ache, just a little.
"You haven't texted me, either," you counter. Choso glances at you and you smile again to reassure him. He sees and smiles back, shoulders seeming to loosen just a bit.
"I know. That's on me. I was a little scared, if I'm being honest. You can be kind of scary when you're upset. No offense."
You scoff, and he shakes his head, tries to cover it up.
"No, no—I guess, not scary, just... it's hard not to feel super guilty, is all. No matter what the person's done, even if they didn't even do anything at all. You just have this way of making people feel horrible for even making you feel like you've been wronged. And, you don't really even seem to do it on purpose. I think."
It does not feel like a compliment, but it doesn't feel like an insult, either. You watch Choso carefully.
"So, you were afraid I'd make you feel bad? For what?"
He shrugs. He still won't really look at you. "I don't know. For... I don't know. I don't know. It's stupid."
Choso asks you if you wanna watch a movie. You say yes—because for all your lamentation about not wanting to see him, you do: you feel like your heart is singing every second he spends with you, every laugh he gives, every moment of attention you can squeeze out of him.
But you're so close. So close it makes you fucking nauseous, like someone is pouring poison down your throat and you're holding their hand while they kill you slowly.
He goes to the bathroom: he doesn't bring his phone. You've never done this before, and you don't even mean to, but when the screen lights up you look. It's from her. You can see her contact photo pop up next to the message and it's this stupid cute photo—she's kissing his cheek, he's smiling all dumb and drunk.
yuki
can u come over tonight?
i miss u
Oh god. Oh god, oh god.
"I'm getting really tired. Can we finish the movie another time?"
Your smile feels so fake you're sure he'll notice, but he doesn't seem the wiser. You're relieved, even as it hurts. Choso smiles back at you, and checks his phone. You watch his face change. You're not sure what it means and you can't bear to read into any of it.
Choso hugs you before he leaves. He cradles the back of your neck, like he always does. You're drowning.
you
hey
u should come over
Toji is doing work, for once, when he sees your text. He glances through his open door, into the hallway—Kento's room is only a few doors down.
toji
be there soon
You're moaning his name. Toji, Toji, you call, like he's going to save you. When he's the one torturing you. Spreading you bare for him, only him, stripping you down with his eyes, chiseling at all your hard bits until only the soft, the pliable, remain.
"Shut up. Shut up," he rasps; like he really wants you to. He loves hearing you. Loves it when you sound panicked, like you don't know what to do. Trapped by what he's giving you. And you take it, so well. Like you were made for it. Made for him.
First, it was just his fingers. Toji threw you on the bed, licked into your mouth till your lips were swollen, bit at you till your tits were shiny with his spit and your cunt was aching and slick, just the way he wanted you.
Then, when you finally begged him for it, he really touched you. You were even more desperate than the first time but it took you a little more to cum. He had to talk really nasty to you, slap you around a little harder. He didn't mind. He kind of liked it.
"Please," you'd said, after he'd made you cum once. Your eyes were glassy, like it wasn't really you talking—but it sounded like you, looked like you, and that was good enough for him. "Don't stop."
Greedy, greedy, he called you, again— he gave you what you wanted, of course he did. It was addicting, watching you fall apart for him. It gave Toji a satisfaction like no other. All those times you'd insulted him, tried to make him feel small, and look at you—begging him to make you feel good, make you feel better.
And then you got on your knees, pushed him onto his back—he let you, of course. He laughed at you quietly when you were crawling between his leg—hoped you didn't notice how his cock jumped at the very notion that it might get your attention.
Toji was oddly out of things to say when you wrapped your hand around him. It's not that he couldn't think of anything: he just, for what may be the first time, didn't want to speak, didn't want to massacre the moment.
It was more for himself, he rationalized, than for you—chasing his pleasure, he thought. Using you.
Your eyes were so pretty, looking up at him.
"That's fuckin' it," he breathed, when you took him in your mouth. The tips of his fingers spread across your scalp and he tried not to push you down too harshly. "Fuck, you're good at this. Never took you for the type."
You still looked a little dazed, from his treatment—Toji thought briefly that you've never looked so beautiful.
And then he flipped you over, and he asked you, in the most restrained way he could—You want me to fuck you? Huh? He was grinding his cock against your ass when he said it. He was so hard it actually kind of hurt.
You reached back and grabbed his hand. His stomach fluttered uncomfortably. Please, you said, all soft and wanting, and he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. I want it, so bad.
So, he gave you what you wanted. Toji fucked you—a little gentler than he usually would've, at first, but then you begged him to go harder, told him you could take it, and so he held you to your challenge.
"Fuckin' take it. You said you could, what's the matter now? Am I too deep inside, baby? Is that it? Bet you can feel me in your fuckin' stomach. Fuck, fuck."
"Toji," you whine, your face smushed into the pillow. "Toji—!"
Like you don't know how to say anything else. Like he's all there is, for you. He grips your hips a little harder and tries not to cum on the spot.
Toji flips you onto your back. He wants to look at you.
You're crying, just a little—he licks your tears and pants in your face like an animal. You cling to him and he lets you; kisses you hard, all teeth and tongue.
He's so close, so close he feels his body going hot then cold then hot again, goosebumps prickling at his spine. His mouth opens before he can stop himself.
"He could—could never fuck you like this. Never," Toji croaks, grinding his hips feverishly into yours. You make a sound like you've been punched, but there's something strange on your face.
He grabs you, squishes your cheeks together, licks your open mouth like he can't get enough.
"You—fuck—you, you think he could do this to you? Could make you feel good? Never, never. Fuck. God."
You moan and your eyes flutter shut. Toji swears there's something akin to guilt on your face but it gets lost in the haze when you cum around him, your body tensing so hard he's a little afraid for a second. You say his name one last time and when you do he can't help it anymore—he follows you, upper body flushing with red, head falling to the crook of your neck.
He rests on you for just a few moments. His head lies between your tits, right on your heartbeat. His eyes are closing before he remembers where he is, who he's with, what he's done.
He sits up. You don't follow him.
Toji waits for you to say something. You turn onto your side, giving him your back. His head is still kind of swimming and he struggles to understand.
"You hungry?" he tries, scratching at his back. You don't do anything for a second, and then he sees you shake your head. He doesn't move yet, just stares at you.
You turn back to him, and the look you send makes Toji feel strangely pathetic—like you're asking him with your eyes, why now? Why are you doing this?
Like he's fulfilled his role already and he's uselessly delaying the next and final step—get out.
The emotion is terrifying. He hasn't felt that like in years, maybe not ever. (A lie. But it's easier to pretend than accept the truth's consequences.)
"Fine, whatever. I get the memo," Toji says, suddenly, and the defensiveness in his tone makes him cringe. You watch him stand, put on his clothes.
"Who were you talking about? Who's he?" you blurt, and he pauses—watches you with his arms above his head, shirt still trapping them. He slides the garment on before he speaks. Of course you have to ask. Of course you have to torment him, when he thinks he's gotten the best of you. The most infuriating thing about you. When he thinks he's broken you down, you just build yourself right back up again.
"Don't let it keep you up," he says, passively. Rudely. "Anything I say during sex means nothing."
(But Toji knows if you say something, even if you don't mean it, it means something. Nothing comes out of thin air. Especially when it seems to.)
You don't really look at him when he leaves—he doesn't say goodbye. And even though he's won—he's won, right?—he does not leave your suite feeling the same satisfaction he did those nights ago. He feels like something has been taken from him. Something very important and something he cannot see, could not see, until it was stolen.
When he gets home Kento is up in the kitchen. They eye each other but say nothing as Toji walks past. Toji, for once, feels like there's nothing to brag about.
He can never really win with you, can he? He pieced you apart, he reduced you to something just a little better than nothing, but only because you let him.
And it doesn't feel very good. It feels like cheating. At a game you were not even supposed to know you were playing.
How can he win now? How can he find a way to triumph in a fight that seems to have no true victor? Because Toji sees it—sees it all, sees the web you're weaving, sees himself getting trapped. And he can't have that. Just can't.
When Toji falls asleep that night, he's thought of something. Something ruinous that stands to benefit none, not really even himself. And somehow, he decides that's the solution.
Something about the joint destruction scratches an inch that he finds only emotional subterfuge can.
tags: college au, frat au, unrequited love, smut, angst
you and choso are best friends. when he starts seeing someone, something between you implodes, revealing truths you hoped you'd never have to know. the residue it leaves behind threatens to swallow you, and everyone in its snare.
read chapter one here! // read chapter three here!
jjk masterlist
pairings: choso x reader, toji x reader
wc: 6.1k
chapter tags: SMUT, angst, ‘unrequited’ love, college au, frat au
content warnings: substance use, SMUT, unrequited love so angst, toji calls her a slut (heh)
notes: i had so much fun writing this chapter. choso came out as a real yearner but i'm happy about that. i still feel like i can make toji a little meaner but it's so hard to resist making him normal >_< i hope you enjoy!!
song inspo: galice - dean blunt; god is fair, sexy nasty - mac miller & kendrick lamar
Choso remembers the first time he got jealous over you.
Sophomore year. Spring semester. The frat was throwing a big end-of-year function and you were helping them set up. Not because you had to, or because he'd even asked you—you just did those sorts of things. You seemed to like helping people very much, even when it inconvenienced you.
This was not one of those times. Choso remembers thinking it was cute how excited to decorate you were.
He was in the kitchen getting you a drink, and when he walked back into the living room, you were standing on a chair. You stretched your arms to tape some blue and white streamers to the wall. And Toji's hands were around your waist, steadying you (but did he really have to touch you like that?)
Choso was struck, because he had never felt the way he felt in that moment. It wasn't intense; he didn't drop to his knees, he didn't yell, he didn't cry. It was a quiet sort of hurt.
God, did it hurt. It felt like someone had reached into his gut and rearranged all the organs.
He brought you the drink and Toji gave him this look, one that told him he knew exactly what he was doing. Then, you turned, and Toji let go of you—Choso was a little soothed by the smile you greeted him with.
There are a lot of things about himself that Choso does not understand. There are a lot of things about other people that he does not understand. Namely, the intricacy of emotion. What is the line between loving someone platonically, and romantically? Is there one? And if there is, isn't there always some blur, on that divide?
Choso wrote off that foreign feeling of envy as simply wanting to protect his friend. To protect you. Toji was not an evil man, but he surely wasn't a saint.
And that was it. Right?
Yuki caught his eye because she was beautiful—there really was no other way to say it. He stared at her in class for a while before he finally manned up enough to ask for her number. It felt good to like someone—something to motivate him out of bed in the morning, to take the bite out of going to class. A crush. He hadn't had one of those in years.
(Not since he met you.)
"What do you think?"
Choso had been doing work at the kitchen table with Kento. They seemed to get along the most—Choso found his favorite way of hanging out with someone really consisted of little to no talking, and Kento was well suited for that.
He showed Kento Yuki's instagram. The post he chose was one of her at a park, in her hometown. He searched for one that he thought painted her in the best light—at least, one he thought would make Kento see her in it.
Kento glanced at the phone over the rims of his glasses. He paused his writing for a moment.
"Yes, I know her. She's very pretty."
The comment left a bad taste in Choso's mouth. Something in the way Kento said it made him feel like he was being scolded.
"What? You don't like her?"
Kento looked at Choso very hard for a moment. He felt like he was being studied.
"She's smart. Nice, as far as I can tell. I don't see why I wouldn't."
Ouch. Choso felt the tips of his ears getting hot. Kento noticed and the corners of his mouth twitched.
The front door swung open: in came Suguru and Satoru, the latter laughing far too loudly, and probably at his own joke. They made a beeline for the kitchen and Satoru immediately opened the fridge, digging for scraps. He was always like that after the gym.
Kento leaned back, and his glasses slipped a little down his nose. The glint in his eyes made him look a little mischievous; Choso would've thought it endearing were he not his victim.
"Hey," Kento'd called. Suguru peeked behind the open fridge door, and Choso felt his stomach drop. "Come look at this girl Choso likes. It seems like my opinion isn't enough for him."
Both standing men turned at that. Satoru abandoned the fridge and Suguru closed it behind him as they approached.
"Ooh. Choso has a crush!" Satoru took the seat beside him, and propped his chin up on his elbow. "Lemme see. I bet I know her."
Suguru said nothing—only looked at Choso with something like surprise in his eyes, and not in a way that felt encouraging. Choso wanted nothing more than to forget he'd ever said anything, but all three of his friends were staring at him now, and he knew Satoru would never let it go.
He huffed. "Her name's Yuki. I have class with her."
"Like, long blonde hair, Yuki? Poli-sci major? Really into weird anime?"
Choso nodded apprehensively. Satoru grinned.
"Oh, I know her. I say approved."
Somehow the blessing did not make Choso feel any better.
"Yeah, her. She's pretty," Suguru finally said. He glanced at Kento. Choso watched them have a silent conversation. Then, Suguru sighed.
"So, what? You gonna ask her out or something?"
Choso shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant under their scrutiny. He couldn't tell what he was being reprimanded for, but it certainly felt as though they were trying to needle him, trying to punish him for a crime he hadn't committed—at least, not yet.
Well, Suguru and Kento were. Satoru seemed oblivious.
Choso leaned back in his chair, put his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "Maybe. I dunno. Just wanted to know what you guys thought of her."
Kento hummed, filling the silence that followed. He shifted and started again on his work.
"She seems like a good match for you," he'd said, once the other two had gone to their respective showers. Choso looked up at him.
"Just be sure it's what you want."
Kento was always measured with his words, and Choso admired him for it—the way he stood in perfect balance between being too quiet, and being too loud. Choso typically found himself on the far end of the former.
But Choso wished then that his friend would, for once, say what he meant. The vague response left a pit in his gut that wouldn't go away.
Not until he saw you, later that night.
Choso got a car the previous summer—naturally, his new favorite thing to do with you, was hotbox it. He pulled into the parking lot next to your dormitory and waited for you, as per your Thursday night routine. He was never nervous to see you, but he felt his heart pick up the moment he made the turn and saw your building.
He texted you he was there and you were out seconds later. You were wearing a sweater you'd gotten last year at your favorite artist's concert, and those flare sweatpants he bought you for Christmas.
You seemed extra excited when you got into the passenger's seat. You had a long day, you told him—your suitemates were arguing, the sink in your bathroom was clogged, your professor assigned a 60 page article last minute. But you were better now for seeing him, you said. You smiled at him—and for the very first time in a very long time, Choso felt his heart rush into his throat.
Still, the pit left, when he started making jokes, and you laughed at them: you typically did. And he wanted to tell you about Yuki, because that's what friends did, right? They tell each other about their crushes. They giggle about them. They gossip.
But Choso was staring at you, and the words got stuck. It felt wrong. Wrong to say her name, when it was you he was looking at.
When Choso got back to his room that night, he texted Yuki. Something about studying tomorrow after class. He shut his phone off directly after and went to bed.
Fast forward to Saturday night: he's drunk, and Yuki is soft in his arms. Her hair tickles his cheeks, when she whispers something in his ear. The beat pulses around him and he feels like they're the only two people in the room.
Only you're there, too. A steady rhythm under all the noise that he can physically feel, in his bones, in his blood.
Yuki leaves to go to the bathroom, and when their connection is severed, Choso finds himself looking for you. A hair raises on the back of his neck when he notices Toji is also gone. His body goes a little hot, then a little cold.
Kento is talking to a girl next to him. She's leaning in far more than he's is, but the smile that ebbs on his face gives him away.
Drunkenly, Choso finds himself stumbling over. Kento gives him a look that makes him feel foolish, but doesn't stop him from asking if he's seen you.
The blonde—uncharacteristically, and to Choso's horror—stares daggers at him. For a moment Choso is scared he's going to yell.
"No," he finally says, voice surprisingly firm. "I haven't."
The girl snags Kento's attention back and Choso is left standing there, stupid.
Someone is clinging to his arm. He almost jumps: then, Yuki's perfume wraps him like a net, and he almost relaxes—almost.
But she's smiling up at him, and suddenly it all feels wrong, like he's making a mistake, a sin, and he's going to be punished for it. The feeling makes him want to throw up because he cannot for the life of him figure out why.
Shouting in the kitchen.
Satoru is wasted and wants to drive to Taco Bell. Suguru is keeping the keys from him, but he's too soft on Satoru to be mean about it. Kento takes over and performs his bad cop duty. Choso watches from the sidelines and tries to understand the strange ache in his chest. He hasn't been this drunk in a while—maybe that's it.
Toji appears. And behind him, is you.
Choso understands everything, suddenly. He understands it more than he wants to. He stares at you, looking like you just took a bath in moonlight, looking like Toji's girl.
He buries it.
He takes Yuki to smoke in their backyard once everyone has gone. She tells him about herself, about her family, her life. She doesn't ask much about him and he's okay with it—he doesn't really want to divulge, not right now. He smokes until your smile is lost to Yuki's kiss, the smell of you trapped in her throat.
They don't fuck—not yet. She sucks him off and it's good, it feels good, she's perfect. When he's getting close, he startles himself with the thought of you. An image of you on your knees for him, staring up with those pretty, unassuming eyes, lips twisted up in a softly taunting smile that makes his chest clench.
He's up late that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling like a monster for seeing you that way. You're his friend. His best friend.
(But it's not the first time that's happened.)
(And it won't be the last.)
"Who is she?"
Yuki's voice is a little raspy with sleep when she asks it, the next morning. Choso slips out of bed and stretches.
"My friend. She's here a lot."
She smiles. "I can tell. It seems like she gets along well with everyone."
Choso pauses. He turns his back to her so she can't see his face, and brings his arms over his head.
"I guess so. The guys all like her." (But I knew her first. She was mine first, don't forget.)
"Can't blame them," Yuki sighs, standing up. Her long hair is frizzy but it still cascades down her back, like it's been trained. "Can't blame anyone. She's gorgeous."
Choso feels suddenly like this is a test. There are a few dialogue options here but he chooses none—only hums in what he hopes sounds like agreement.
It occurs to him that you're probably not here this morning. You typically sleep in his bed—a fact he could not forget no matter how hard he tried, even when Yuki was kissing him in it—so you must have gone home, after Toji kicked everyone out. He didn't see you when he brought Yuki outside to smoke, and at that point everyone was asleep.
Yuki's clinging to his arm as they walk down the stairs. He sees the TV is on—he can hear Satoru's unmistakable laugh.
There are three mugs in the sink and he knows one of them is yours. His initial bodily reaction is to freeze: he recovers quickly enough, because maybe someone else used it, but then he hears your voice. It's quieter than usual, but he catches it over the onscreen dialogue.
"Morning," you say to him—Choso swears you sound mad, which he knows he's just imagining.
But what he knows he's not imagining is you, wearing Toji's shirt. Goosebumps pinch at all his exposed skin.
"You slept in Toji's room?" he blurts, before he can help it. Kento is glaring at him—or is he imagining that, too? You give him a taut smile, and just say yea. He feels like he's in an alternate dimension.
Maybe you're mad at him because he didn't tell you he was having Yuki sleep over. She said when she went downstairs to get some water, you were on the couch, and you heard her say she was staying. But maybe you're hurt that he didn't tell you himself. Maybe you're hurt Yuki slept over in the first place. He thinks about how hurt he would've been if the roles were reversed.
Choso focuses on this, and stamps the envy that burrows deep in his chest. "Sorry, I didn't...—um. Sorry I—"
Yuki calls him back. You're not even looking at him now, not anymore, and Choso has to escape. He finds solace in the kitchen.
You leave early that morning.
Choso is terrified. He feels as though he's done something horrible to you that he can't fully grasp. It floats in the vignette around his vision: and every time he looks at it, it goes away.
The dread follows him, when he drives Yuki home. It sits like a stone in the pit of Choso's gut and gets heavier every time he thinks of you (far too often.)
Confusion cannot even begin to name the feeling that plagues him. For the first time, Choso does not know how to approach you—does not know what to do, what to say. It had always been so easy with you. But something between you has become complicated.
Something between you has been killed.
It's Monday, 1:30pm—Intro to Sculpting. You haven't texted him.
Choso has one friend in the class—Satoru's friend, Shoko. She's sort of weird, but she has the most flattering bob he's ever seen; and, oddly enough, she has the same sort of face that he does—the sort born with sunken, tired eyes.
They sit together and mold their respective clay creations. Choso is never really talkative, especially when he's making art, but he's particularly quiet today. His fingers just can't seem to make the material do what he wants it to. He can see Shoko sending him odd glances in his periphery.
"You good?" she finally asks, chewing at the wooden end of her sculpting tool. Choso glances up at her.
"Just got a lot on my mind," he grumbles. He pretends to be wrapped up in getting the curve of his structure just right.
Unamused, Shoko sighs, and puts her tool down.
"Come on. Just tell me."
Choso scoffs, and prepares a retort—but he finds he does really want to respond, does want to talk about it. Maybe a girl would know how to parse through it all—the suddenly overwhelming intricate web of his emotions, your emotions, emotions, just flying around everywhere and staining every surface they touch.
"Just... friend stuff. I think my best friend is mad at me. It's not important." He knows he sounds pathetic, but Shoko spares him the observation.
"Sure it is. What'd you do?"
He pauses, because that's a good question—what did he do? Shoko sees his hesitation and a little laughs escapes her.
"How man of you. You guys never know what you've done, do you?"
"Well—I mean, okay. I had... another girl sleepover, after a party. Which is not a bad thing in itself—" Choso says it like he's trying to convince himself. Shoko raises a brow.
"It's just that she—my friend—usually sleeps over, and I didn't tell her that the other girl was going to, so... I guess—I think, she's mad at me." He almost tells her that it's fine, because you slept over anyway, in someone else's room—he stops himself, because the information is not relevant.
(He still really, really wants to tell her that. Wants to verbalize the scarily possessive shadow that is blending with his thoughts of you.)
Shoko hums to herself. "Is this that girl you're always with?"
"Yeah. My friend."
She smiles.
"Your best friend."
Choso huffs. The distinction feels irrelevant.
"Why do you feel so guilty about it?" Shoko finally asks, after a moment of quiet. "It's not the best thing in the world, but... you're acting like you killed her puppy. Or something equally cruel. Does she like dogs?"
He thinks for a second. (Not about the dogs—but, he does realize he actually doesn't know whether or not you like them.)
"It was wrong of me, to leave her on her own like that. Without even telling her. I would be hurt if she did that to me—if anyone did that to me."
"Right. Well," she drags it out a bit, flicks away a tiny piece of clay hanging on her finger, "if that's all, I'd just apologize."
(If that's all. That is all. Right?)
(Right?)
Choso catches you as you're leaving the library. You don't look happy to see him: well, at first you do, but then he sees the glimmer leave your eyes. You greet him with the smile he knows you use when you don't want to talk to someone.
"Hey," he says, pathetically. He rocks back and forth on his heels.
"Hi."
His eyes are on the ground and he catches a glimpse of the hot dog socks he got you, under the hem of your jeans, blowing in the slight breeze. His fingers feel like they're made of static.
"So, I just—um," Choso starts, "I just wanted to say sorry again, for not telling you, you know—about Yuki, that she was sleeping over, that stuff. It was really inconsiderate of me. You're a great friend and you don't deserve that."
It sort of all comes out before he can stop himself, but he means every word.
You make a funny face. You try to make your grin look real. You keep moving your head, trying to keep him from getting a good look at you, trying to distract yourself from the ache in your throat.
"Well, thank you. I accept your apology," you say, and you try to keep your tone light, but there are little weights perched on each of your words.
Choso pulls at the straps of his backpack and he huffs out an uncomfortable laugh. You have never wanted to escape him so much in your life. He looks unbearably handsome.
"Ok, good."
A beat. Choso looks like he's going to explode.
"I just—" (your breath hitches) "—I don't want things to be weird between us, but it—um, it kinda feels like they already are, and I just—" he stops himself, takes a breath. Your heart is pounding.
"Are we good?" You wish he would stop talking, stop talking—
"Because I never want us to not be good. And if there's something I can do to make us good, please tell me. I'll do it. In a heartbeat."
You want to cry. You want to take him in your arms.
You smile. "Of course we're good. Don't worry."
Choso looks entirely dissatisfied with your response, but you can't bring yourself to stand there any longer. You make up some excuse about having to pee. It's not a total lie, you think, because you really do have to pee—but, certainly not enough to justify how fast you walk away.
Your dorm is warmer than usual today. The radiator must've gotten fixed while you were in class.
Your bed is soft against you as you lie there, staring at the ceiling. Waiting. You try to ignore the urge to check your phone again but it's no use. You open it, let the screen's light illuminate your face.
You
do u wanna come over?
Underneath, the thing you've been pathetically—and a little regrettably—waiting for:
Toji
right now?
You're not surprised at the brevity—Toji is not a texter. What does surprise you is how quickly he's responded. It's only been a few minutes. Typically he waits at least an hour, if he responds to you at all. For that reason (among others), you never really text him.
But you've texted him today.
Tonight. It's 9:30pm. You've done the work you could get done, showered, eaten. Your suitemates are at an away game, so there's no one around to bother—or, more importantly, to talk through your painful interaction with Choso.
So, the ache in your bones remains. It drove you to your bed, and then to your phone, and eventually to Toji's contact. Where it takes you now is up to discretion.
You wait exactly two minutes.
You
one time offer... window's closing...
You bite back a smile when he pops into the conversation almost immediately. The bubbles go up, down, up... they stop, and then his message:
Toji
what's ur room #? be there in 20
A giddy feeling blooms in your stomach. Your fingers shake a little when you type your answer.
(Almost) true to his word, Toji is at your door twenty-five minutes later. When you open the door he's giving you this apprehensively smug smile that makes you think he's going to make fun of you. If he did, you might have to kick him out. You already feel a little humiliated.
You sit on your couch and put on some music. He rolls for you, and you ask him about his day. He only makes one offhand comment—I don't think you've ever asked me that before—but remains otherwise restrained.
It's almost like Toji can sense how fragile this is. You both know that you only mysteriously invite people to your home past 8pm for one reason—but he won't confront you with that yet, and you won't admit it anytime soon.
You can tell he's just rolled out of bed by the way his hair still has a little static cling. Not to mention that he's wearing pajama pants.
"Did you even go to class today?" you ask, leaning against your wall, by an open window. The fire alarms in your building are almost inoperable, but you don't want the house to smell like weed when your suitemates get home.
Toji scoffs. "What makes you think I didn't? People go to class in pajamas all the damn time."
You take a long inhale. Toji sits on the back of the couch, leaning toward you. "So, you did go to class?"
A pause: then, he laughs gruffly. "Maybe. Maybe not."
You end up lying on the floor in your bedroom. Toji's playing a song for you, and you're pretending not to like it.
You turn to him and prop yourself up on your elbow. He's staring up with lidded eyes and a dazed grin that suddenly makes you want to bite him. His bicep flexes, folded underneath his head. It makes you think of how it felt to sleep next to him and how you kind of want to do it again.
Toji sees you staring and his head falls to face you. His hair shags over his eyebrows, and you're hit with the realization that Toji is quite beautiful. You think maybe you notice it because of how soft his eyes look—just for a second.
"Toji," you say, finally—hushed, like you're sharing a secret you aren't supposed to know. The air between you is charged, just like it was at the party, on the bench.
"I wanna kiss you."
Toji's nostrils flare as he exhales hard. His eyes stay defiantly on yours.
"Well, c'mere then."
It's hesitant at first—at least on your end. Toji seems to know what he wants from the get go. He lets you have a second of softness before his teeth scrap against your bottom lip, and he's pushing his tongue into your mouth. You can't help the sigh that escapes you.
Toji slides his hands from your waist to your ass, pulls you on top of him. He parts from you for just a second—watches the spit that stretches between your lips—and scoots back, so he can lean against your beanbag.
You feel entirely swallowed by him. He licks into your mouth like you're some hard candy he's trying to melt, searing you with the heat of his tongue. His grip on your hips is almost bruising and you're a little ashamed at how it makes you burn.
You're not sure if it's Toji that starts moving you, or if you do it yourself, but you're grinding against him before you know it—he eats every little moan you give him, feeds you some of his own. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you relish the groan he breathes out when you tug.
A sinful grin creeps onto his face. "You wanna pull on my hair, sweetheart? Let me give you a better angle."
Then he's between your legs, tearing off your bottoms and tossing them in the corner. It's been a little while since you've done anything and you're a little shy at the wet spot on your panties—but Toji seems to love it, even as he teases you. He whistles.
"You this wet around me all the time?" he taunts, and you want to bite him back but his big hands are smoothing down your thighs, and you can feel his hot breath fanning over your clothed cunt.
"Don't flatter yourself," you huff, but Toji just laughs in your face.
He flattens his tongue against you and your legs twitch—he holds them in place, stares up at you through his bangs. You bite the inside of your mouth to keep yourself quiet.
"If you want me to make you cum, you better start making some noise," Toji warns, voice rough in a way you haven't heard before. Your cheeks burn—something in you really, really doesn't want to let him win, but if he stops now you think you might cry.
He licks at you one more time over your panties before he pulls them to the side. You're embarrassed at the sound you make when he squishes your folds together, pinching right around your clit. His tongue comes out to wet his bottom lip as he watches, eyes glued to your glistening cunt. The obsession in his eyes somehow makes you feel less exposed.
He lands one hard slap against you. You yelp and squirm when the sting makes you throb.
"Fuck. You like that, huh? Knew you would."
He slaps your pussy again, and this time you let out a stuttered moan. His pupils dilate so hard his eyes look black. (Blacker than usual.)
His hand rubs over you in circles that just barely miss your clit, and you're starting to get desperate. His forearm is pressed across the bottom of your stomach to keep you in place.
"Toji," you breath—almost a whine, and you swear his eyes flutter, but you're distracted by his mocking smile, "fuckin' touch me already."
He laughs at your desperation. "Uh uh. You're gonna have to say please, baby."
You groan. You want to beat him at his own game, but your body is betraying you. "I'm not gonna fuckin' beg you."
Toji stops. Your head pops up on its own, and you know you have a desperate, almost panicked look on your face, but you don't care enough to cover it up. His hands move to your thighs and he stares up at you like a wild animal eyeing down its intended prey.
"That's exactly what you're gonna do. Unless you want me to stop. Don't think I won't."
What you're sure he means is Don't think you're special. But your body gets hot and you feel your head fill with pillow fluff. You stare back at him for a second before you force it out, in a small voice:
"Please."
The corners of his mouth twitch. He doesn't seem moved.
"C'mon. You can do better than that." His hands massage at your lower stomach. You sigh shakily. You feel a little panic in your gut.
"Please, Toji," you say, you beg, "please, touch me."
He laughs darkly. He plants a kiss right above your clit and your hips twitch up by themselves.
"Why should I? You don't seem to want it very much." He's making fun of you. You want to cry, but you want to cum even more.
"I do," you blurt, and you see his breathing quicken. "I want it. Want it so bad."
Toji licks a flat stripe from your belly button to the mound of hair above your cunt. You feel like you're on fire.
"Stupid girl. I'm gonna make you see god."
His tongue goes flat against your clit and your back arches on its own. You let out a sigh of relief that makes him laugh into you, and the vibrations make your hand wrap around his hair, tugging him deeper, closer. You think he might push back, but he lets you. His hands keep your hips still and his strength gives you goosebumps.
"You needed this, huh? You're making a mess all over your pretty fuckin' sheets, baby," Toji rasps, glancing up at you. He replaces his tongue with his big fingers, two of them rubbing sloppily over you—the sound is crude.
He slaps your pussy again and it sends electricity up your spine. The noise that leaves you makes Toji shove his face into you, sucking hard at your clit, before massaging his tongue over the throbbing mess.
You pull at his hair again and he full on moans into your cunt. It reminds you of a song you heard once and become obsessed with finding: a fascination born from how little of it you really remember.
"Fuck, Toji—" you finally blurt, and he moans again at the sound of your voice. "I need more. Please."
"Someone's greedy. You think you deserve more?"
Toji's words shock you a little. You try in vain to grind your hips against his palm, which gives you just enough pressure to keep you pliable. You take a little pride in how ruined he sounds despite the fact that he's currently ruining you.
"Speak. Use your words like a big girl."
You whine. "Please! Please, make me cum—wanna cum on your fingers, so bad."
For once, he obeys your command without pushback. When he first fits his two fingers inside you almost finish on the spot. You want him so bad your entire body is aching.
"Mm, fuck... look at that. Greedy pussy just swallowing me up. You're both fuckin' greedy."
Toji leans his head down to lick at your clit while he finger fucks you, and your eyes get watery. When he comes back up his cheeks are flushed, lips shiny. For the second time tonight, his beauty strikes you.
"Fuckin' look at you, grinding on my fingers like a stupid slut. Fuck. You want me to play with your clit? Yeah? I bet you do. You just wanna cum, right? You wanna cum so bad you're going fuckin' dumb, right? Can't have that. How you gonna pass all your classes?"
He suddenly stands, parts from you—you whine softly, a little panicked, but then he's scooting up to lie next to you, pressing you into his chest. His hand slides down your stomach almost immediately and he fucks you on his fingers again, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
Toji grabs the back of your neck and slams your lips into his. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily. When he pulls away the look in his eyes fans the growing surge in your gut.
You fist at his shirt, helplessly. "Holy shit—'mgonnacum—!"
"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl. Go ahead, cum. Cum on my fingers like the slut I know you are."
You cum so hard you see white. When the ringing in your ears stops you hear yourself, panting, voice sounding not your own. Toji doesn't stop: he slows down a little, but he fucks you through it. He envelopes your open mouth in a kiss that sears you to the very blood in your veins.
"What the fuck," you breath, once you've come down. You're boneless in Toji's arms, lying on the floor. You wince as his fingers slide out of you and watch in disgust when he sucks them into his mouth. He laughs at you.
For once, it seems he has nothing to say.
The air is heavy, but not in a way that suffocates you. You can feel him hard against your thigh—extremely hard, so much so that it looks kind of painful (it looks, fucking huge). But before you can raise a tired hand, Toji is standing, carefully wrestling into his arms before he tosses you (not so gently) onto the bed.
"You're leaving?" you say, your voice a little weak from the energy you've just exerted. Toji nods, eyes you as he stretches his arms above his head. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You don't want... any help? With your very visible problem?"
Toji smiles darkly at you. "Think of it as a favor. You owe me one."
Your heart skips.
"Plus," he continues, "I gotta do my work. For class tomorrow."
The look he gives you is more tender than anything he has thus far. You try not to read into it but you can't help it. You reach up, grab his shirt in your hand to tug him down to you. He bends over your figure, and you kiss him. His hand comes to rest on your collarbone in a way that feels painfully (and deceptively) domestic.
Toji pulls away. You drop back onto the bed.
"I'll see myself out. Sleep tight, sweetheart" he says, sarcastically—so casual that if it were anyone else it'd give you whiplash.
But it's Toji. It's so deceivingly Toji, that you think nothing of it.
He's almost out your bedroom door, but something stops him. You watch him turn, and when he faces you his eyes are a little dark.
"If you ever need my help again," he offers, and you swallow hard, "don't be afraid to ask."
You fall asleep so quickly after Toji leaves you don't even realize it—not until you've woken up, and the sky is still dark. Your panties are sticky and you're grateful to have the suite to yourself; you don't have to worry about waking anyone up while you shower.
You watch yourself in the mirror and think about the way Toji kissed you. You think about his fingers in your cunt and his hot mouth on your stomach.
And then you think about Choso. His sad, confused face—so nervous, so scared, because you're mad at him, you're upset with him. How could you ever be mad at him?
His sweet voice when he asks you if you're good. When he makes promises that he doesn't even know he can't keep. Wouldn't keep—and you would never expect him to. Guilt eats at you.
You lie in bed and remember Toji against you, on you. And you find, for that moment, it all hurts a little less.
