summary: you’re left alone with your best friend’s quiet, mysterious roommate. What could possibly go wrong?
content: MDNI 18+, fem!reader, tattoo artist!choso, alt!choso, pierced!choso, stóner!choso, plug(?)!choso, hair-down choso, no use of “y/n”, pórn no plot, maybe some plot, high séx, elements of dubcon, oral (f!receiving), sqúírting, dumbification, piv, size k!nk, CHOSO IS LOWK POSSESSIVEE, dare i say yandere?, brééding, etc.
word count: 5.1k
author's note: picture credits from left to right: einruji07 on X, b___ashui on X, einruji07 on X | divider credits go to @strangergraphics | this was inspired by an anon rec from a couple months ago! i tweaked it a little bit, so plz forgive me (ó﹏ò｡) 🩶 also, MDNI 18+ if you are not 18+ i will block you.
choso's aux: dreams, fairytales, fantasies - a$ap ferg, sativa - jhene aiko, girl with the tattoo enter.lewd - miguel, nights like this - the kid laroi, swim - chase atlantic, right here - chase atlantic , chokehold - sleep token
“Where the fuck is he?” You mumbled anxiously underneath your breath.
You had been waiting inside Curseblood Studio for almost twenty minutes at this point, your phone long since dead by your side, thighs stuck to the plush leather of the parlor couch, and the thin heel of your boot tapping restlessly against the worn flooring.
The interior of the place was dim, and the reception area was entirely empty. It was 19:00, and you knew it was near closing hours (if not already).
Behind you, the soft pat, pat, pat of the summer rain tapped against the shop’s windows - a gentle melody accompanied by the faint humming of a tattoo gun somewhere deep within the shop, steady and distant, like a pulsing heartbeat thrumming in anticipation.
You were supposed to meet Suguru over an hour ago to catch the train into Chuo together. It was by order of Satoru, as the white-haired menace had practically begged the entire friend group to go clubbing with him tonight. But when Suguru never showed up at the station, you found yourself heading to the one place he was most likely to be: the tattoo shop where he worked.
Which, conveniently, just so happened to be situated right underneath the apartment that he shared with–
“You good?”
The voice was deep, soft, familiar.
You lifted your head, only for your eyes to land on… him.
Kamo. Choso.
The tall, tired-looking man had silently situated himself behind the counter without you realizing earlier. His dark hair, which normally was tied up, fell loosely around his neck, showing off his shaggy wolfcut. The dark inked slash that ran across the bridge of his nose contrasted well with the silver shark bites that adorned his pink lips, and his usual loungewear was replaced with ripped cargos and a black muscle tee, exposing his muscular arms and the gorgeous, dark red ink that wrapped around his pale skin in dizzying patterns.
His dark eyes met yours for just the smallest of moments, before quickly flicking away.
“Hi,” you murmured. You suddenly grew shy, feeling embarrassed for imposing well past his business hours. “Yes. I’m… good.”
He offered you a small nod in response.
The two of you knew each other only in passing. He was part of Suguru’s other friend group, and just so happened to be both his roommate and the other co-owner of the studio.
A reserved tattoo artist during the day.
An introspective stoner during the night.
During the numerous times you found yourself in your best friend’s apartment, you had only observed Kamo Choso from a safe distance: the hard planes of his bare back as he disappeared through the kitchen, the faint scent of old weed lingering from his room, and the sharp line of his jaw caught in brief, accidental glances.
It was only during the rare moments when the two of you awkwardly crossed paths, whether in the cramped hallway or the messy foyer, that conversation ever seemed possible. Yet even then, it rarely made it past a simple “hello”.
Which is why you found him so hard to read.
You truly couldn’t tell if the man genuinely disliked you, found you entirely unremarkable, or if he was simply the kind of person who kept everyone at arm's length.
Regardless, this was the first time ever where the two of you were addressing each other directly, without the chaperoning assistance of Suguru.
The quiet man rested his inked arms on the countertop that separated the two of you, silently letting his dark eyes wander over your body, taking you in.
Your hair framed your face softly, and every time you shifted, he could see the faint glint of the earrings that dangled beneath. The dress you wore tonight was short with a modest neckline, and the sheer black tights that adorned your legs accentuated the curve of your thighs.
Choso blinked, before wordlessly staring down at his hands, which had, at some point, unconsciously began to grip onto the countertop below him.
“I apologize for imposing on you.” Your words came out small as you looked up at him from where you sat, your nails tapping nervously against the frayed leather of the couch.
He shook his head almost immediately. “You’re not.” His voice came out a touch too deep, too serious, too rushed. He coughed lightly, willing his eyes to look at the clock on the wall rather than the mole by your lips. “Shop’s about to close though. You waitin’ on someone, or d’ya get bored and want some ink?”
You couldn’t help but release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, an endearing chuckle escaping from your prettily glossed lips at his dry words.
Cute.
“Hmm…” you smiled, playfulness laced in your voice, “unfortunately, just waiting today...”
He didn’t even have to ask. He already knew for whom.
Suguru.
Choso tsked, cursing the other man underneath his breath for keeping you, the most attractive person that’s ever stepped foot inside the building, waiting. You watched him with doe-like eyes as he scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in deep thought, and his inked biceps flexing subtly under the lowlight.
A moment passed before the man in front of you spoke again.
“Well then. Wanna do some waitin’ upstairs?”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The thick smoke from a dying roach curled languidly in the heady air between you both.
It had been roughly thirty minutes since Kamo Choso had invited you into his apartment, taken your phone to his room to charge, and returned with the disappointing news that Geto-Fucking-Suguru hadn’t left you a single notification.
It had also been roughly twenty minutes since he’d offered you his weed.
Which is how you both found yourself here, sitting on a large couch in his shared living room, Human Earthworm 4 playing in the background, Choso’s zip-locked stash laying haphazardly on the coffee table in front of you, and his extended leg mere centimeters away from your thigh.
He didn’t expect you to be able to keep up with him, let alone agree to his offer in the first place.
Smoking with company felt a whole lot nicer than smoking alone.
Though, he didn’t know if that was because it was with you.
He took a sip of his Asahi, before chancing a glance up at you.
The whites of your eyes were glazed a pretty pink, and you were already staring at him with hooded lids, your glossed lip caught between your teeth as if you were deep in thought.
He looked away abruptly, startled by the force of his own heart squeezing at the sight of you.
“You don’t like me very much.”
Your head felt heavy as it lolled to the side, lashes fluttering lazily with each slow blink. The observation left your lips with surprising ease, delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone one might use to comment on the weather or the color of the sky.
He raised a pierced brow, his eyes impassive and his jaw drawn tight.
“Pardon?”
You smiled at him as if you were amused, before reaching out to grab the perspiring can from him, your soft fingers grazing his inked ones.
How bold.
If you were any more sober, maybe you would have refrained. Given him his space. Maintained the formal distance that had always existed between you. You frowned at the thought.
You took a sip of his beer, a hearty sigh escaping your mouth as the cool liquid gave you some reprieve from the heat that permeated the room.
An unreadable look crossed his face as his eyes locked in on where the gloss on your lips left a faint mark where his mouth had been just moments before.
“You heard me, Kamo Choso.”
You regarded him for a moment, dark eyes probing him as if a dare.
And, despite his proclivity for solitude and his enjoyment of peace, at the end of the day, Kamo Choso was simply a man.
Game. On.
He wordlessly fished out another pre-rolled joint from his stash, settling it between his pierced lips before sparking his lighter.
A moment passed.
The movie played on in the background.
Outside, the distant horns of late-night Osaka traffic drifted up to the third-floor apartment.
He exhaled through his nose, letting the smoke unfurl between you, filling the space, before slowly turning his head to face you, his expression unreadable.
“Address me casually.” He spoke coolly, his voice deep and just a touch scratchy.
And it took a moment for your hazy brain to register the fact that he was not asking.
He tapped the joint against the ashpan on the table, before taking another drag.
You swallowed, heat beginning to pool in your belly as your legs clenched subtly at his words.
It was almost a tease, watching his strong jaw work as he smoked in front of you, and seeing the glimpses of hard muscle rippling underneath his cut shirt.
How gorgeous he was.
How breathtakingly intimidating.
And before you could even have time to register your thoughts, he’s shifting closer to you, his hand mere millimeters away from your leg.
“Open.” His voice was low and careful.
You quietly obeyed.
And his eyes were focused solely on your pretty mouth, on the way your lips softly wrapped around the paper of the joint as he placed it gently between them.
His large fingers brushed against your bottom lip, the metal of his rings cooling the heat on your skin, before tenderly grazing your jaw.
You quickly took a few puffs, trying to conceal your reddening face behind the smoke.
You removed the joint from your lips, letting it rest on the edge of the ashpan as you stole his beer again, doing anything you could to try and calm yourself down.
The corners of his mouth curled into a knowing grin.
“-And for the record,” he leaned in, his hand moving to rest against your knee, the warmth of his skin searing straight through the thin fabric of your tights. “I don’t share my weed with people I don’t like.”
And his face was so close to yours that you could see the flecks of gold in his glazed eyes, the smooth lines of his tattoo that ran across his nose, the reflection of the TV light within his brow piercings, and the way his tattoos crawled up his forearms and curled around his neck.
Your head began to spin.
The steady warmth in your belly began to manifest an embarrassing amount of slickness between your thighs.
There was no denying it.
He was attractive. So damn captivating.
So really, you couldn’t help it when the following words tumbled out of your sweet, sweet mouth:
“I think I’m gonna need more proof than that, Cho-so-kun~”
And despite your light, breathless voice and wavering grin, Kamo Choso was oh, so serious as he pulled you into his lap, muscular arms working to situate yourself on top of him as your dress rode up higher along your thighs.
Your hands instinctively reached out to prop against his hard chest, and the shock on your face had your mouth forming the cutest little ‘o’ for him.
His chest was firm underneath the fabric of his shirt, and he smelt faintly of smoke and peppermint.
The longer you sat on his lap, the more your breaths intertwined, his air becoming your own, and yours becoming his.
You couldn’t help it as your hand drifted up the broad plane of his chest, your fingertips skimming over the fabric of his shirt before running over the slope of his tattooed neck. Your touch lingered along his jaw, thumb brushing gently against the cool metal of his shark bites
So soft, so intimate.
He brought one of his hands to cup your own, keeping your palm pressed to his jaw, and your thumb resting against his lips.
“Deal.”
And then he’s turning his head to press his lips against your palm, mumbling something against your soft skin, before moving both of his large hands doowwnn your body, finding steady purchase on your hips, fingers spanning across your ass as he’s shifting you impossibly closer to him, until your warm cunt was pressed against his painfully large erection.
Your chest was now squished against his, your noses knocking, and your long lashes fluttering against his skin.
He could feel the stiffness of your nipples as it pressed into him, and he could smell the jasmine of your perfume that began to mix with the light perspiration on your neck.
His lips were hovering yours, his breath shaky as he stared down at you.
“Choso…” you all but whimpered to him.
And oh, how he loved hearing his name in your mouth. His dick lurched in his pants.
Which is why he’s sticking his pierced tongue out, running it softly along your bottom lip, before languidly curling it up, letting it slip between the seam of your parted mouth as he finally, finally kisses you, sucking you in, savoring the sweetness of your saliva and the softness of your tongue.
And you sighed, so prettily and dreamily as your eyes fluttered closed.
You could feel the heaviness of his erection now as it pressed against your clothed cunt, the tights you were wearing doing absolutely nothing to hide the pathetic dampness that already began to soak through.
His large hands began to roam, rubbing circles into your hips before running down to your thighs, slipping his calloused fingers underneath the seam of your little black dress. And then pushing up, up, up along your legs until the skirtpiece is thoroughly bunched around your waist.
And your mind was spinning, the head high from his weed making all of your senses feel so heightened.
His hands felt rough and dominating. His tongue tasted like syrup and felt like sin. The cool metal of his piercings sent electrifying jolts straight through your overheated nerves and all the way down to your throbbing pussy.
There was just something so addictive about him, the way he moved, the way he controlled the pace – something so captivating that all you could do was follow, willing your body into submission, making you want to obey.
He released your bruised lips with a small haah~
You blinked up at him, your pretty eyes dazed and cutely confused as to why he was stopping now.
His heart squeezed tightly in his chest.
With one hand on your waist, he’s gently reaching around you, carefully picking up the joint that was still burning away on the ashtray, and then placing it between his lips.
He inhaled slowly, methodically, letting his eyes lock with yours again, his gaze glassy and heavy-lidded.
Such a pretty little thing, you were.
And oh, how he wanted to keep you.
Mark you and bite you and claim you for himself.
Choso reached out, his large, ringed fingers lightly wrapping around your neck as he pulled you closer, pressing his mouth against yours again as he let the smoke lazily unfurl inside of you.
And the smile on his face was nothing short of sleazy as he felt another gush of slick escape through the now translucent material of your tights.
“Mhhhn. Easyy there,” he all but drawled into your ear, his hand still firm against your throat.
You couldn’t help but squeeze your eyes shut, your core twisting with embarrassment, shame and… arousal?
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, before resting the joint between your lips as he uses his other hand to lift the material of your tights higher, drawing the fabric taught to enunciate the folds and dips of your pussylips underneath.
He sucked a heavy breath in, his dick twitching at the sight of the soaked fabric, your quivering lips, and the impressively large dark spot that you were making on his pants just from kissing alone.
He was such a fucking goner.
“‘M not even close to done with ya yet,” he breathed, his chest starting to rise and fall almost erratically. “Not even close to provin’ to you…” his glassy eyes were slowly growing wild as his brain seemed to register something.
“Proof… You wanted proof, babygirl?” His low voice came out rough and partly delirious. He didn’t even give you a chance to speak before he’s using his large hand to cup your sex, the heat of his palm against you making you clench in anticipation.
You could feel your heartbeat throbbing in your pussy, pounding to a beat almost similar to his name.
Cho-so. Cho-so. Cho-so.
“I’ll show ya’ proof-”
And then he’s riiiipping the flimsy fabric of your tights apart, until your bare cunt lay fully on display before him.
“-And you’re gonna take it. ”
You didn’t even have a chance to respond before he’s pushing you down, down, down until your upper body rested against the cushions of his couch.
He leaned forward, holding the dying joint to your lips, letting you take another hit before he finished it off, taking one long drag before crushing the roach into the ashtray.
You try to keep the smoke inside of you for as long as you can, letting it settle in your lungs and course through your blood.
And it seemed like he was of a similar mindset as you.
Except, instead of exhaling into the already hazy air of his living room, he’s leaning down, until his flushed face is nestled between your damp thighs, his tattooed nose pressed firmly against your exposed clit, and his soft mouth latching onto your drenched pussylips as he blows the smoke inside you for yet the second time that night.
Your eyes squeezed shut, kiss-bitten lips tugged between your teeth, and cheeks flushed a sensual shade of rouge.
Everything was just so incredibly warm.
“Choso–!”
“Haah– this what ya’ wanted all along right? You just wanted me.” He’s lapping you up, licking fat, messy stripes against your folds, talking against your pussy almost breathlessly. “Say it. Say that you just want me. That you just need me.”
And your jaw is hinging, mouth parting, the words forming at the tip of your tongue–
Squeellchhh~
“Yess! Good girl! Such a good fuckin’ girl.”
It’s only then that you realize he was never even talking to you to begin with - in fact, he wasn’t just talking against your pussy, but to it.
You moaned, your chest heaving, your skin buzzing with every touch of his fingers and every lick by his tongue. You squirmed as he draagged his piercing through your folds, the smooth metal tracing a cool path on your blazing skin.
You could hear the sound of your blood pounding loud in your ears now, your heartbeat wild in your chest. Everything felt like too much, and not enough, all at the same time.
“M-more, Cho. Need more.” You panted out, your glassy eyes staring back up at him pleadingly.
“That so?” He grunted, the words reverberating throughout your cunt as he spoke between your lips.
You nodded, a tear slipping from your eye as the heat in your belly grew.
“Then get louder.”
And there was absolutely nothing that could’ve prepared you for when he pressed his pierced tongue against your clit, letting the metal ball press firm as he plunged his thick, ringed fingers inside of you, fucking into your tightness, pumping in and out and in and out, hitting and pressing and massaging that sensitive lil’ bundle of nerves deep within your velvety pussy. And you’re gasping shamelessly, your breah hitching and your back arching and your voice breaking as he’s fucking his fingers impossibly deeper, crooking them up until you saw stars.
You could feel yourself beginning to cream around him, your juices messily splattering across his maw.
And the way he was staring up at you had your tummy twisting in on itself, the unyielding heat pooling in your pussy growing hotter and hotter.
He stared at you through glassy eyes and heavy lids, his cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink, sweat running down his temples, and his warm tongue swirling his name onto your clit in agonizing lil’ loops.
Cho-so, Cho-so, Cho-so~
It was divine. It was hot. It was messy and wet and so fucking good.
You began to chant his name like it was the only one you knew, like you forgot your own entirely, like you didn’t even fucking care – because all that did matter was the wet sounds of his mouth sucking your clit and the squelching of your pussy as it echoed throughout the heavily smoke-filled room.
And you were doing so well, crying his name on both your lips, that he didn’t ever want to stop.
So, it nearly broke him when he had to release your clit with a little paah~
He leaned back, one of his hands still fucking his fingers inside of you as the other worked on unbuttoning his pants. His rhythm faltered for only a fraction of a second as he tugged aside his briefs, releasing his cock with a heavy thump! against his hard abdomen.
And…
Holy shit.
Your wide eyes ogled at him as your mind fully fucking short-circuited.
He was large.
He was pierced.
And he was inked.
You let in a small gasp, your glassy eyes trying to take it all in: the tattoos that wrapped around his base, the sheer fatness of his girth, the angry veins that climbed up his cock, and the glinting metal on the underside of his shaft.
Another warm gob of slick slipped languidly past your lips, making a trail through your soaked folds before finding home on the damp couch cushions below.
And a burst of pride swelled in Kamo Choso’s chest at the way you were looking at him, at the way your pretty pussy was crying to him: so cute, so pathetic, so needy.
He swatted his hand against your swollen cunt, relishing in the little aah~ that escaped your kiss-bitten lips.
“You’ve been doin’ so well, babygirl,” he breathed.
And you were so dazed, so stoned and blissed out that all you could do was whimper in response.
Slowly, he pulled his ringed fingers out of you, his hand and wrist soaked fully in your release. He hummed, a proud smile pulling across his features as he languidly wiped your juices over his already leaking cock, before slowly, teasingly jerking himself off.
It was transfixing, to say the least – watching as he gripped himself at the base, his heavy dick bobbing as he pumped himself, pushing thick pearls of pre-cum up, up, up through his slit.
His breath stuttered as you reached out, curiously tracing your fingers along the underside of his shaft, pausing his ministrations.
“I thought…” you began, your eyes locked onto where the veins on his dick pulsed in anticipation. “I thought you still had somethin’ to prove to me?” And your eyes were wide and doe-like as you menacingly spread his gooey pre all over his throbbing tip.
“Oh I do, don’t I,” he drawled, leaning over your body, caging you in, as his hips dipped down to meet against yours. “How could I even forget.”
And then he’s slipping his cock against your soaked folds, coating himself further in your slick, rolling his hips so that you could feel him, all of him, from base to tip.
You mewled at the sensation of his heavy dick pressed against you, using you, and the metal of his piercing meanly rubbing past your pulsing clit.
“There ya go,” he crooned, his mouth licking hot stripes by your ear. “Jus’ like that now. I like it when you're loud f’me.”
And he keeps his pace, rubbing against you, letting the weight of his leaking tip tease lightly against the tightness of your hole, before retreating, always retreating, slipping and sliding against you in painstaking loops.
You could almost cry.
You could almost scream.
And then you’re clawing at his back, at his hair. Digging crescents into his shoulders. Begging him to go. Begging him to do something. Begging him to fuck you.
And the grin that formed on his face was positively wicked.
“Deal.”
And then he’s presssingg his thick cockhead against your entrance, the cool metal of the piercing rubbing against your warm lips, as you slowly began to swallow his tip whole.
You’re gasping, your hole stretching to accommodate for his girth, for the extra metal that he wore on his skin..
“Holy fu–” his eyes screwed shut, his breath ragged, and his chest rising and falling erratically at the sensation of your warm, gooey walls wrapping around him in an overwhelming kiss, squishing and massaging against the sensitive underside of his tip.
He could’ve nutted right then and there, your wet pussy squeelching as you squeezed around him.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
“Fuck, you’re just a cruel lil’ thing, aren’t ya?”
And you don’t even have time to respond, don’t even have time to think, because he’s forcing himself in, spearing your gummy walls apart, burrowing his dick deep within you until it felt like you could feel the metal of his piercing practically smooching against your cervix.
Your eyes roll back into your head, the air feeling as if it had been knocked from your lungs from the sheer length of him.
“Haah~ knew my baby could do it f’me,” his deep voice cracked, his glassy eyes wild as he gripped firmly onto your hips. He started to buck into you, fucking himself deeper and deeper, until all you could hear was his skin slapping against yours as he molded your pussy to the shape of him, rubbing his cockhead against your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, animalistically.
“Knew you’d be able to take it,” he was grunting now, his words choppy and he veins on his neck popping from the sheer force of his dick pounding against your cunt. “Knew you’d feel this good while I prove to ya how much I fuckin’ like ya.”
Your traitorous heart swelled at his words, your tummy fluttering, pleasure building, and your pussy gripping onto his cock like a lifeline.
His pierced mouth found yours again, his tongue meeting yours in a messy french. Drool started to spill from your lips as his pace quickened, the wet sound of his balls smacking against your soaked cunt filling the hazy air around you. Everything was getting hotter, stickier, clumsier. His hips were beginning to stutter, and his breaths were coming out in short, quick pants.
And his tip just kept pressing exactly into that spot you needed most, the smooth metal of his piercing rubbing your nerves in ways that had your toes curling, skin tingling, and head absolutely reeling.
And you could feel it – your legs trembling, your ears ringing, the absolute peaks of your orgasm rippling and running through your body in overwhelming waves as his fat, leaking cock fucks into your womb.
“Shit–I’m–” his jaw tensed, his muscles flexing as he willed himself not to cum.
His dick was almost halfway outside of your gooey hole when you blinked up at him, teary eyed.
“C-Cho…” you were barely coherent, sputtering and gasping. “More.” And then you’re wrapping your legs around him, locking him in, pressing him flush against you, pushing his cock back inside you, refusing to let him go. “Need more proof,” you whispered.
And oh, of course he had to oblige.
Especially for you.
Especially like this.
“Yes, babygirl” was all he could breath out as he messily fucked you through your orgasm, pumping his cock in and out and in and out of your squelching pussy.
He watched, entranced, as he could see the soft bulge of himself in your tummy from where his dick was buried within you.
It was just all too much, too warm and soft and wet and tight, that his vision turned blurry, his lungs squeezing, and his chest heaving, as his thick, ropey cum forcefully painted your womb white, stuffing you full.
And, despite the absolute mess, he tenderly pressed a kiss to your temple, letting his mouth rest against your skin as he shallowly fucked his seed inside you, riding through the peaks of his own high.
For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, his body warm as you breathed in each other’s air.
“Stay tonight?” His voice was soft, almost uncertain.
Your heart tugged against your ribs.
“Okay.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You snuck out of his bed before he had the chance to wake.
You blamed it on work. On responsibility. On the long list of reasons that made leaving feel like the right thing to do.
It was for the best, you kept repeating to yourself.
The two of you had been stoned last night. Perhaps even a little crossed. Those were all facts.
And this was not your first hook-up. You knew how it always went. You knew that by the time he would wake, you’d see it on his face: the embarrassment, the awkward realization, and the forced post-sex niceties
You knew how it worked – so why risk spoiling a beautiful(ly perverted) memory?
Your heart squeezed, and your stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot.
It was nice, for what it was worth.
Your thoughts were a blur as you hurried back to your apartment, too focused on putting distance between yourself and the warmth you’d left behind. And it wasn’t until you sat down at your desk that you noticed your phone was still dead, its screen dark and lifeless in your hand.
He never charged it.
You sighed, plugging the device into power as you began to ready yourself for the work day ahead.
And it was only after you finished making yourself a cup of coffee and settling down into your chair when your phone finally lit up.
.
.
3 missed messages from “Sugu”
1 missed call from “Sugu”
9 missed messages from “UTAHIME <33”
21 missed messages from “Gojo (Block L8r)”
5 missed calls from “Shokkkkko”
1 missed message from Unknown Number.
Oh?
You pressed into the latest message.
.
.
Unknown (01:07): txt me when u wanna make it permanent. X
Your brow furrowed as you read the text again.
The hell did that even mean?
You glanced up, pondering the message until your eyes briefly caught your own reflection in the mirror across from your desk.
And there, just visible above the collar of your shirt, was a swirl of dark red ink peeking through the fabric.
Your breath hitched quietly.
Slowly, you hooked a finger beneath your collar and pulled it down, revealing tidy, elegant, deliberate strokes.
脹相の
...
"Choso’s"
a/n: apologies if this got poopy this was totally meant to be a lot shorter than i made it. arf.
tag list: @rinreena, @hailsworld00, @crybabymina, @porcelaiinedoll
feat quarterback!toji x camgirl chem partner!reader
summary: Toji Fushiguro considers himself a very generous man, especially after using part of his D1 quarterback paycheck towards his favorite camgirl. If anything, he's a patron of the arts: dedicated, curious, and always ready for the next big thing. So when he finds out his quiet little chem partner has the same bedroom as his idol? Well... color him intrigued.
content: MDNI 18+ ONLY, fem!reader, camgirl!reader, chem partner!reader, quarterback!toji, fratboy!toji fanboy!toji, jjk college au, no use of “y/n”, prn with a ridiculous amount of plot, oral (m!receiving, f!receiving), piv, squírtíng, dumbification, toji has a biiiiig d, dáddy k!nk, size k!nk, brééding, etc.
word count: 10.1k (i don't play abt this man)
author's note: all credits of the above pictures go to their creators. The left-most picture is from thatsallitchief on X or tiktok. If anyone knows the artist of the right-most picture let me know so I can tag them!
toji's pre-game playlist: gemstone - don toliver, homecoming - lil uzi vert, don't kill the party - ty dolla $ign, love me - lil wayne, you - don toliver, nightcrawler - travis scott
These were intense times.
The Michigan Wolverines were right in the midst of the NCAA College Football Playoffs, and it has been weeks of non-stop practice, conditioning, strength training, and late-night film recaps for the team of 100-odd men–all in preparation for a chance at being the nation’s top seed.
There was much on the line, especially seeing that Senior Quarterback and Captain, Toji Fushiguro, was aiming to secure his spot in the upcoming NFL draft.
As such, his pre-game ritual (one that he has refined and perfected over the course of four years) was a strict routine backed by, and rooted down in, evidence-based science and partially unbiased statistical analyses.
It all starts with his protein shake: two whole bananas, one cup of oats, a shit ton of peanut butter, one spoon of raw honey, four scoops of protein powder, and full-fat milk.
Next, his attire. He needed his signature gray game-day sweats (unwashed for the past 10-games in a row), a muscle tank he’s owned and stretched out since high school, and his most industrial-grade, noise-cancelling headphones.
As for schedule? He needed thirty minutes of privacy, unrestricted and uninterrupted access to high speed internet, and most importantly of all: he needed to watch at least two of “stargiirl_xx”’s videos prior to heading out onto the turf.
Give him that, and he was bound to have a fuckin’ phenomenal performance on the field.
His meaty hand was already squeezing his growing erection through his sweats, the thick outline of his cock visible against the backlight from stargiirl’s newest video loading up on his laptop screen, and his protein shake already half finished by his bedside table.
He wasn’t just a fan. He was her #1 biggest financer.
Though she never showed her face, he had come to memorize the curve of stargiirl’s thighs and the moles on her hips over the course of the years. He knew her room layout by heart, and diligently watched the animes that she kept posters of on her walls.
She was the best of the best. Not showy, not performative, just purely indulging herself.
And sure, if keeping her active meant donating a sizable portion of his D1 stipend to fund her… pursuits, well, then call him a patron of the arts.
His dick shamelessly pulsed in his pants as the page finally stopped buffering and the title of the video loaded.
“Lessons in Vibrations Pt I”.
Part one?!
He knew almost immediately that tonight’s game would be a fantastic one.
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The Wolverines won their first round of the playoffs in a sweeping victory: 41-20.
And Toji Fushiguro? Well, he was the star of the show, of course. He completed more than 85% of his passes (with six of them leading to touchdowns) and led an 80-yard rush all in a single game. He was on fire: skin buzzing with adrenaline, cool sweat dripping down his face, and his large canines glinting under the fierce stadium lights as the deafening crowds roared his name.
“To-ji! To-ji! To-ji!”
He felt indomitable, floating on a high all the way from the stadium, to the bus, to the afterparty.
But in the lecture hall? Well…
His grades were barely passing for the majority of his classes, and in fact they were quite below when it came to Applied Chemical Kinetics II.
He was truly a lost cause.
He had missed countless of Yaga’s lectures throughout the course of the semester, promising himself that he would catch up on the review notes (he didn’t) and trying to watch the recorded lectures on the bus rides to any of the away games (he never).
So really, it came as no surprise to anyone when he absolutely tanked his midterms those six long weeks ago.
At the time, he was desperate. Failing class meant getting booted off the team. He needed someone who could easily cover his sorry ass for the rest of the semester, and fast.
Therefore, the obvious choices for a final project partner were between Ijichi and, well, you.
And, seeing as Toji Fushiguro had a pair of functioning fuckin’ eyes and a brain that lived partly in his pants, he chose the latter.
It wasn’t easy persuading you to take him on for the project, which was something he honestly didn’t quite expect (nor was he used to). You were stoic to his ill-attempted flattery and unaffected by his usual charm. Every smile he flashed at you seemed to wither upon arrival, and every playful remark was met with nothing more than an empty stare.
In the end, desperation drove him somewhere pride never would’ve allowed before: straight into his football stipend.
“Listen. I’ll give you $300 if you can help me pass this class.”
It was the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving break, and he remembered how his words rang loud and heavy in the dusty air of the old lecture hall. Everyone had left at this point, the class long-since over.
You had stood before him unmoved, your books hugged to your chest and your normally impassive gaze slowly piquing in interest.
He remembered how you looked up at him through your lashes, and the way you tilted your head almost cutely. “Make it $400,” you said it softly, yet with little hesitation.
He remembered how he felt himself gulp, not from the number, but at the way your eyes were scanning his face like it was the first time you even noticed him.
His hand had gripped the strap of his backpack just a little tighter.
Though, you didn’t seem to notice as you continued. “I’ll meet you on Mondays and Thursdays only, I work every other day. And I want half as security in advance.”
You pulled out your phone, swiftly punching in your password before holding it out to him, the contacts app already open on the screen.
For the first time in all of his college experience, he was genuinely caught off guard.
What the fuck?
He took your phone.
“$400?” he repeated, huffing faintly under his breath (was he amused? Annoyed? Aroused? He couldn’t tell at the time, nor does he know now) as he typed in his number. His large hands looked almost comical holding your small device. “You rob everybody like this, or am I just that special?”
He handed your phone back, his calloused fingers gently grazing your warm ones.
“You’re failing chem,” you replied flatly. “You are not special.”
He hated how his dick twitched at your words.
But most of all, he hated how he didn’t know what to say in response.
He was the star quarterback, captain of the football team, most popular guy on campus and an undeniable chick-magnet, for god’s sake!
His silence surprised the both of you, and you took it as your queue to leave. “See you later,” you glanced down at your phone, looking at his contact. “Fushiguro.”
You didn’t even know his fuckin’ name?!
And with that, you gently breezed past him, only offering him a small nod as you walked out of the room. The scent of your shampoo faintly caught in his nose as he tried to will his boner to stop growing in his sweats.
After that, the break passed uneventfully, and by the time campus filled back up again and the chill of early winter settled in, your project was impossible to ignore.
He kept to his word of paying you the $200 in advance.
You kept to yours by meeting him that following Monday.
The two of you developed a routine during the second half of the semester, meeting in libraries and cafes to review material and project timelines for the final submission.
And during those couple of hours on the Mondays and Thursdays that he had you, he came to the haunting realization that you were so… chill.
He was blunt, but you were blunt back. You flicked him when his head got too large, and he flicked you whenever you were too stuck in yours. He shoved you out of your shell at times, while you pulled him back down to Earth. It was rare, and so fuckin’ odd, this kind of dynamic between the two of you, the kind that goes unnoticed until suddenly you realize it’s there.
Soon, he would find himself calling your name from across the quad, and you would nod with what looked like a smile at him when you passed his row in lecture. He gave you tickets to his games (which you would resell for 200% of its value), and put your name on the list for the Kappa parties despite you never showing up. You sent him stupid instagram posts, and brought him homemade coffees whenever the two of you met post-game days.
And thankfully for Toji, today was one of those days.
“How’d it go?” Your voice was like honey and wine, low and smooth, as you looked up at him from behind your computer. The light from your screen illuminated halos in your eyes, and the steam from his opened thermos curled languidly in the air between you both.
You sat across from him in a quiet, off-campus cafe.
He grinned, smug and wolfish and borderline sleazy, as if he’d been just waiting for you to ask. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his overwhelmingly large, muscular arms over his head. He made a point to subtly flex his biceps while under your scrutiny. His shirt lifted slightly above his abdomen, and you blinked your eyes to focus on the scar on his tanned face, rather than the dark happy trail that ran down, down, down to his…
“Perfect game. You’d know if you actually came ‘round ‘n watched.” He playfully winked, his deep chuckle echoing as you gave him a deadpan stare.
“I’m quite alright, Fushiguro.” He pouted in mock defeat as you looked back down at your screen. The battery symbol on your laptop flashed red in warning: low power.
You’d only been there for thirty minutes and you could’ve sworn you charged the damn thing last night. Sure, your outlets were kind of fucked, and sure this was a twelve year old laptop with a battery life the size of a peanut, but surely it wouldn’t give out on you this early in the day?!
You exhaled a long breath. The thought of putting money down for a new computer made your heart physically ache.
The two of you (mainly you) had just started to make headway with the report (“flow state”, as Toji would call it), and you knew you wouldn’t have a chance to work on the project again until after your Wednesday shift. “You got a charger on you?”
He scoffed, almost offendedly. “Wanna try askin’ that again sweetheart?” He tsked you lightly.
You rolled your eyes, a heavy sigh tumbling out of your soft lips.
“Forget it. I know you don’t,” there was something prickly beneath your uncaring tone, and he curiously paused to examine you.
He could see the faint circles under your eyes that you tried to cover with concealer, the way your shoulders sagged slightly from the weight of your backpack as you lifted it from the seat beside you, and the brief glimpse of all the mini bookmarks sticking out of your planner as you dropped it inside the bag.
“I guess we’ll have to call it here then. I’d need to go back to my apartment and grab my charger to do anything else.”
And, perhaps it was because the two of you had formed this unexpected bond over the past several weeks, something deep and quiet and far more important than Toji would ever willingly name, that the weight of being the weakest link finally made Toji Fushiguro feel the heavy hammer of guilt bury deep within his hardened chest.
A moment passed before he cleared his throat, holding up his hand.
“Or…” the words were slow to move out of his mouth, embarrassment thickening in his throat. “Why don’t we work there?” You stared at him, almost startled, as if he’d grown another head. His ears warmed under the intensity of your gaze as he continued. “I still got power, I can keep goin’ if you’re down.”
His triceps flexed as he scratched the back of his neck, tan skin pulling taut as he looked away.
“It’s a small place,” you warned.
He shrugged, his voice catching in his throat at the way you were holding his gaze. “I don’t mind. I’d go any place you choose.”
He paused, his eyes widening slightly at the words that tumbled out of his mouth, as if he didn’t realize what he said until after he said them.
You breathed, and a beat passed before a small, pretty smile pulled across your features – the first he’s ever gotten from you like this. And this time, your tired eyes warmed into something soft, something akin to appreciation, something new.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, then I’d like that.” You tilted your head slightly, and his heart thumped oddly loud in his muscular chest. “Thank you, Toji.”
For just the briefest of moments, you looked at him as if he had just offered the world.
All he could do was swallow and nod.
He didn’t even realize you called him by his first name until you were both out the door.
The walk to your apartment was comfortably silent. Despite Toji’s taller stature and athletic build, he wordlessly matched your slower pace, walking between you and the road.
Your apartment was situated right on the outskirts of campus; too close to drive, but too cumbersome to walk. He quietly marveled at your resolution to go in person to class every day, especially when he had difficulty hauling his ass to the lecture hall that was just a block over from frat row.
The taller man was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even realize how close he was standing to you as you both paused at your front doorstep. His towering frame loomed over you, and he could feel the heat of your body as you dug through your bag, and he could see the goosebumps that rose on your neck when your arm accidentally grazed against his abdomen.
Your keys softly clinked! together as you unlocked the front door.
And, there was something faintly intimate about being led up the creaky wooden steps to your 3rd floor apartment, your hips gently swaying in his face with each ascent up, and your soft hands lightly tracing the railing in your wake.
He intrusively thought about reaching out to touch your fingers, to run his hand along the curve of your waist–
He coughed lightly.
What was he thinking?
As you opened your apartment’s door, he was immediately hit with the light smell of lemon and jasmine.
Your place was small but tidy; a one-bedroom attic apartment where the kitchen and living area blurred together, soaking in the same sunlit space. Despite its size, it carried your mark: two types of server aprons hung on the coat rack, a soft crocheted throw blanket you made draped over the worn couch, and a set of reading glasses laying beside a hand-painted mug on your round window table.
It was cute; homely. A small glimpse into your life outside of class.
“You can start getting set up in here, I’ll just grab my charger from my room.” You spoke quietly as you led him to the table.
You silently turned before he could respond, padding across the old wooden floors to the door that was directly across from where he had set his bag down.
He had only just started typing his password into his computer when he lazily looked up, his dark eyes catching the movement from your room.
And, holy shit.
No.
There was genuinely no way in hell.
He was scrambling up out of your wobbly kitchen chair before his mind could even register it.
His body felt as if it were moving through water, and his brain felt like jam. Was that his own blood roaring past his ears or his soul escaping his body?
Cool beads of sweat began to form on his neck, tickling at the ends of his dark, grungy hair. He had crossed the width of your apartment in three long strides, until suddenly he was at your doorframe, his large body leaning against it like it was a lifeline, and his scarred mouth parted into the dumbest looking “o”.
His wild eyes scanned your room fervently. The walls, the Cowboy Bebop poster by your bedframe, the pale linen sheets, the empty vase on your bedside table and the stack of yellowing paper backs in the corner of it.
Everything looked familiar.
Scratch that. Everything looked the same. The same as–
“Can I help you?”
You were on all fours. All fuckin’ fours.
You tilted your head up to face him, taking a pause from wiggling the stubborn plug out of the ancient socket underneath your desk.
And… could you? Can you? He was at a genuine loss for words.
All he could do was stare dumbly, his large fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and his body emanating a heat that he prayed to god wasn’t visible from where you were.
“Uh. Y-you got a bathroom up here??”
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He scoured through every single video and rewatched every single clip that night.
The furniture, the decor, the walls, the window placement: everything was the same.
And so, the verdict was in: you–his quiet, guarded, asocial, and steely chem partner–were none other than stargiirl herself.
What. The. Fuck.
It was confusing to wrap his head around, this whole stargiirl-chemgirl business. But would he go as far to say that it wasn’t attractive? That he didn’t pop a boner every time he thought about it?
No. He couldn’t. He’d never.
Was this divine intervention or his own personal hell?
He couldn’t tell.
What does this mean? How should he act? What does he fucking do with this information now?
He rubbed his temples before running a tense hand through his hair. At the same time, a notification popped up on his computer.
“Check out a new post from stargiirl_xx !”
He could feel the blood in his veins thumping against his skin.
“Don’t do it. Please don’t fucking do it-” he mumbled.
He tapped into the link despite himself.
“Lessons In Vibration Pt II”
He wordlessly clicked the play button on the video.
For a moment, he thought his screen was buffering. The camera was set up to look out onto your bed, though you were not in frame yet, presumably twiddling with the settings of your camera.
But when you finally did walk into view, his heart nearly imploded.
The frame only showed you from the mouth down, your identity mainly concealed. You were bottomless, bare legs walking across the floor as you situated yourself on your bed. The only piece of clothing you did have on was an overlarge sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, one that he, in his panicked daze to get out of your apartment earlier, forgot he had left behind.
He didn’t dare breathe, nor could he move. His head was craned so close to his computer, as if he wanted to go through the screen itself just to get a better look.
He noted how his hoodie fell past your ass, large and consuming and honestly? So fuckin’ perfect on you.
You were nearing the end of your normal introduction, and he realized you spoke differently on video, low and confident and sensual and hypnotic.
“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about my content throughout the years,” your hands started to draaag the bottom of his hoodie up, letting it bunch just slightly above the dip of your waist, enunciating your curves. “-And I’ve realized I’ve never had a partner during any of them.”
The comments on the side bar started to flood through, hundreds of viewers already volunteering themselves to be your +1.
His jaw ticked, hard.
“I think,” you leaned forward like you were sharing a secret. Toji gripped onto his computer until a faint pop! could be heard of one of the inner screws coming loose. “I think I would like to change that in the future,” and then you smiled, really smiled, a full, playful grin wiping across your features in a way he had never been able to see in person before.
His dick bobbed in his pants.
This could not be happening to him right now.
You continued, “but for now, welcome back to my Lessons in Vibrations series.”
He watched as you started introducing the toys you would be using today, before you slowly began to touch yourself, teasingly showing glimpses of the purple lace panties you had on underneath his hoodie.
And he couldn’t help it, really.
Because when you started rubbing your vibrator against your clit, your deft fingers plunging skillfully into your cunt, soft whimpers escaping your lips as your pussy started squelching out a fucking melody – all while wearing his fuckin’ sweatshirt – what the fuck else was he supposed to do?
His sweats were already halfway down his thighs, and his meaty hand greedily pumping his own cock in sync to you fucking yourself on your fingers.
He watched hungrily as you pushed his sweatshirt up further along your body, exposing your stomach, teasing the view of your bare tits. He bit back a groan at the thought of your scent lingering in the fabric, and prayed to whatever deity above that you wouldn’t wash it out before he got it back.
Below, your fingers languidly teased the head of your vibrator against your entrance. It was the insertable kind, with a slender tip and curved body, the type that had your hole trying to suck up the device with every rub against your dripping slit.
He could feel the veins in his cock pulsing hotly in anticipation, pushing up thick pearls of precum out onto his flared tip.
He wondered what it would be like to slip his shaft against your drenched pussy lips, to massage the underside of his cockhead against the tight ring of your entrance, to feel you squeezing around him, and to hear the sounds you would make just for him.
He gulped, cool sweat starting to form on his brow. You were beginning to fuck the device into you, pumping the vibrator in and out and in and out. He could see your legs trembling, your juices starting to uncontrollably splash outside of you, and your pussylips fluttering with every bzzz bzz bzzzzzt of the vibrator fucking and swirling and massaging into your g-spot.
He was matching your pace, furiously pumping his dick, thinking about how you looked on all fours earlier, thinking about how you smiled when you called him his name, thinking about how you look when you concentrate and the mole above your brow, thinking about the coffee you made for him and the weird shitposts you sent and the way you could look at him like he was nothing, and everything, all at the same time.
And suddenly, he wasn’t climaxing to the stargiirl he had always seen on screen.
It was his tough, quiet, calm chem partner.
And as he shot hot spurts of thick, ropey cum all the way from his dick to his chin (the most he’s ever released before), he realized only one thing.
He just finished to the thought of you.
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Toji Fushiguro had a problem.
No, scratch that.
He had a fucking crisis.
It was drill day, and his head was absolutely nowhere near the turf. He fumbled balls, missed targets, and was a full thirty-seconds under his usual sprint times.
And that was only how one of his practices went this week.
It had been five whole days since he last saw you.
Five days of being dogshit at his sport.
Five days of holing up in his frat, avoiding campus, avoiding class, avoiding your texts, avoiding you.
It’s not like he wanted to do this, but he didn’t know what to do, how to act, or what to even say.
How could he talk to you casually while knowing he’s given probably a third of his checks to you? How could he be normal in your presence knowing that he’s watched every single one of your streams, and in turn has finished an embarrassing amount of times to each of them?
How could he trust himself when the thought of you alone had his heart pounding so hard his ears hurt? Or how his chest squeezed so tight he almost went to urgent care, just because you texted asking where he’s been and if he was okay?
How could he face you, knowing that he somehow developed the largest, fattest, most egregious fuckin’ crush on you?!
And, for the record, Toji Fushiguro did not do crushes. He hadn’t necessarily “ran through” the entire roster of available chicks on campus, but he did have an occasional fling, nothing serious, nothing long, nothing that would distract him from football and his dreams.
He was known as the campus heartthrob and heartbreaker. He was Mr. Non-Chalant, Mr. Everybody-Wants-A-Piece-of-Him, and Mr. I-Don’t-Get-Attached all wrapped up in one 6’4, 230 lbs body.
A crush? That was new, unexplored territory for him.
He stared down at your last texts to him.
⭐️ (Thursday, 12:03pm): i got us a nice spot!! im sitting on 2nd floor @ clark ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
Ba-dump!
⭐️ (Thursday, 12:18pm): knock knock, is mr. toji theree
Ba-dump! Ba-dump!
⭐️ (Thursday, 12:56pm): hey, is everythin ok? r we still on for today?
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–
⭐️ (Saturday, 10:01am): r u alive
It physically sickened him that he couldn’t get his cowardly fingers to just fucking write back. But every time he opened up your text chain, all he could do was stare.
Which is exactly why he couldn’t see you yet.
He needed time.
He needed space.
He needed to get this shit under control.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him, the Kappa Epsilon fraternity was throwing a rager tonight. With the group of men only one week out from the next bracket of playoffs, this would be the last night the football frat would get to drink together for a while if they were to make it to the finals.
It would be the perfect distraction.
About an hour or so into the party and he was buzzed. He absolutely demolished that shithead Ryomen in beer pong, crushed a pack of PBRs, and now was cooling off in the kitchen, his body feeling swimmy and light.
He reached for his phone. Maybe, just maybe, if he looked at your messages again for the umpteenth time today, maybe he would know what to say, maybe he–
“Ah, so you can come out and party but ignore all of my texts?”
His heart did that stupid thing where it pounded so hard against his chest he wondered if his ribs bruised.
Despite the booming of the bass coming from the room over, and the idle chatter of randoms idling in the kitchen, he could hear the dry, unimpressed, and entirely too familiar voice coming directly from behind him.
He turned, his eyes lowering to find you, as if it was muscle memory, as if it was his second nature.
You never showed up to these parties (and trust, he has invited you to them all). Yet here you were, your body leaned up against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over your chest, and your hair falling around your frame.
He grinned, the buzz in his head making it easy for a stupidly cheeky and wide and boyish smile to plaster onto his face. (a/n: toji has a hung smile. Okay? Okay.).
“Hey, party animal,” he said, almost dreamily.
The top you wore clung to you like a second skin, accentuating the swells of your breasts and the dip of your waist: features that you usually hid underneath your normal, bulkier campus-attire.
He was indecisive, his eyes bouncing between the unreadable look on your face to the sliver of exposed skin right above your miniskirt.
You looked good, really fuckin’ good.
Your eyes widened, before your cheeks blushed the prettiest shade of red, your manicured fingers tightening around the plastic solo cup you were holding
Did he say that outloud?!
You straightened, steeling yourself, willing the warmth in your cheeks to go away. “You’ve ignored me for five days, Fushiguro-” your voice was firm and cool, cutting sharply through the noise of the party.
Back to the last name basis.
You looked away, before adding, “-and you ditched me on Thursday.” You spoke that last part softly, deliberately, a look of sadness flashing briefly in your pretty, doe-like eyes.
A dull pang rippled through his chest.
He knew the implications of your words – the two of you never missed a meetup since this whole “deal” started.
And, like those days in the libraries or cafes where he found himself sitting before you, following your every word and direction, he now found himself moving towards you, a small pout forming on his scarred lips, as his strong arms caged you in until you were wedged between himself and the counter.
And, you knew he was huge before.
But now, up close, you realized just how large he was - his broad shoulders obscuring your view, his muscular chest rippling under the tight black shirt he wore, and his huge hands riddled with veins that climbed up, up, up his forearms.
He was overwhelming and all-consuming, surrounding your senses with the kind of intensity only he alone could pull off. You breathed in, your chest rising, fighting against the cotton of your ill-fitting top. He smelled of fresh pine and warm leather, clean and raw and manly.
You came here pissed, but now found your resolve completely fogged and muddled.
He leaned forward, dipping his head low, until his shaggy fringe tickled softly against the shell of your ear.
You knew he had been drinking, but the question was, did he know what he was doing right now? Was this purposeful? Was this real? You couldn’t quite tell, but the way his breath stuttered as his nose traced light patterns into your neck, the way he was breathing you in, and the way his hands periodically clenched onto the countertop as if to restrain himself, told you he was at least semi aware of what he was doing.
Your heart was hammering in your chest. The two of you never stood this close before, let alone touched each other.
You turned your head slightly, trying to put at least some ounce of space between your face and his.
But for him? That just would not do.
He slowly pulled away from your neck, his nose lightly mapping a path from the base of your neck, across the soft expanse of your cheek, to the tip of your own. Noses brushing, breaths mingling, chests heaving, and hearts pounding as his scarred lips hovered your glossed ones.
“Why have you been avoiding me?”
The air between you was warm and thick, charged with something tender and so deeply intimate.
“Because you scare me,” he mumbled.
“Oh, really?” Your mouth twitched.
“Mm.” He nodded once, nose rubbing softly against yours in an eskimo kiss. You could see how his eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, lips dangerously close to pressing against yours.
“‘Think ya cursed me.” His neck flushed red, his low voice was barely above a whisper.
“I can go-”
“Don’t.”
And then his large hands were latching onto your waist, the heat of his skin searing through the thin material of your skirt.
“Don’t. Don’tDon’tDon’t.” His brows scrunched together, his face becoming serious. “Don’t go. Don’t leave. Not when you’re here, with me, pretty girl.”
You breathed, taking your time to steady your voice after hearing the pet name roll off his tongue. “Then what should I do?”
“Stay.”
It was as simple as that, really.
And then his lips were on yours, warm and soft and commanding. He kissed you like you were sin, drinking you in, savoring you on his tongue, before inevitably, always inevitably, going back for more. He didn’t let you breathe; he wouldn’t. He was greedy and wrong and possessive, claiming your mouth like it was his alone to conquer. Your knees weakened as his tongue massaged against yours addictively, molding against you like you were made for him; like he was made for you.
Your hands moved before you could think, before you could decide if you were angry with him or if you hungered for him. You found purchase on his broad shoulders, before making your way up, up, up to his neck, one hand running through his dark hair while the other held onto the underside of his strong jaw, thumb gently caressing the scar on the side of his mouth, pulling him in.
He pressed into you further, your ass hitting the lower counter. His body was flush against yours, his chest purposefully rubbing against your tits.
He could feel your nipples hardening through the flimsy cotton of your top, and he couldn’t stop the sleazy grin that was forming on his face.
Below, his grip on you was gentle but firm, bringing your body to press and grind against his in an unhurried, languid way, like he had all the time in the world, like all of this was fated from the start.
And his fingers, oh his fingers, which spanned across your hip, slowly found their way to your ass, gripping and cupping and kneading into the soft, jiggly flesh.
You could feel something move against your thigh, something sturdy and heavy and completely fucking monstruous.
“Haah-” you shakily sighed out, breathy and dazed as you looked down to the outline of his bulge. Your eyes widened.
“I like when you use that smart mouth, y’know,” he was talking against your lips, not able to find it in himself to pull away. His hand slid up the side of your waist, until he stopped right underneath your breast, his thumb rubbing against the underside of where it started to swell.
His voice dropped an octave lower, whispering to you like it was a secret. “Talk to me. Break this curse. Tell me it’s not just me that feels like this.”
Please.
His heart was racing. He was stone cold sober. This was it. This was his admission.
ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–
You breathed.
The party raged on in the background, muddled and distant, like his ears were submerged under water–
“It’s not just you, Toji.”
Your voice was quiet, your cheeks tinted rouge, your pretty eyes looking up at him in earnest.
And that was all he needed.
He picked you up like you were nothing (his bench was 350 lbs, squat 600 lbs, and his hip thrusts? don’t even worry ‘bout it), a smug, victorious grin tugging at his scarred lips.
He carried you out of the kitchen, and a steady stream of wolf whistles and howls erupted from his frat brothers and party goers as the two of you made your way across the foyer, up the stairs, and towards a bedroom. His bedroom.
He carried you inside, keeping the lights off, letting the warm glow of the streetlamp beside his window spill softly across the room. Without a word, he set you down on his large king-sized bed.
The air in his room was tender and still. You could hear the faint bass of the stereo downstairs, vibrating against his wooden floors like a heartbeat. The distant cheers of the crowd down below faded to quiet as he pressed his mouth to your own.
He leisurely climbed over you, never breaking the kiss, his muscular arms holding his body above your own.
It didn’t take long for the makeout to turn heated again, teeth clashing against teeth, bodies pressed against each other, rubbing and teasing in a way that had your head spinning.
You put your hands against his chest.
“Toji-”
“Stay,” he breathed, whispering the words against your lips, like he could read your mind. “-Stay with me tonight,” he pressed his body closer into you, rutting his hips, “and lemme show you the things I’ve been wantin’ to say to you all week.”
You could feel his cock twitch ominously against your bare thigh as you swallowed.
His lips were swollen and glistening from your mixed salivas, his eyes glazed over, jade irises almost completely black. His grip on your lower body was unrelenting, holding you in place.
You lightly pushed your hand against his chest, a hesitant look crossing your features.
A beat passed. For a second, he didn’t even realize he stopped breathing.
“You’ve been drinking,” You paused, your voice coming out small. “What if.. what if you don’t mean this in the morning?”
And for all your expertise and genius, oh, how completely wrong you could be.
He let out a humorless chuckle, his sharp canines peaking through his lips in the process.
“Did it sound like I was jokin’, sweetheart?” He shakily exhaled through his nose as he pressed his erection against your clothed cunt, holding himself there, letting you feel the pressure and full weight of what he was packing. “Does it feel like I’m jokin’ ‘bout this?”
You bit your lip, pussy throbbing, a warm slickness starting to soak through your panties, before messily spreading between your clenched thighs.
You shook your head.
“What’d I say about usin’ your words?”
He pulsed his dick, the sensation making your pussy clench.
Fuckin’ tease.
“Nngh- no. No it doesn’t feel like you’re joking,” you almost gasp out.
A satisfied smirk plastered onto his tanned face.
“Good girl.”
And then he’s moving down the bed, his calloused hands spreading your legs as he pressed wet kisses against the hot skin of your thighs. He was methodical and slow, making his way up your inner thigh, savoring the small sounds that you tried to suppress as he reached the bottom hem of your skirt, his face mere inches away from your sopping pussy, and his breath puffing warm air against your dampened panties .
“Ohhh jus’ look at ya,” you could tell he had the most shit-eating grin on his face right now, pride swelling in his voice as he carefully dipped a large, rough finger between the seam of the thin purple fabric you adorned. “This all f’me?”
And - Holy shit.
The videos of you didn’t even do this justice.
Because low and behold, here you were, under his body, and you were so fuckin’ wet. His finger slid against your folds with little resistance, putting just enough pressure that you couldn’t help but moan his name as he rubbed circles against your clit.
And, Toji Fushiguro never claimed to be a patient man. So, it should’ve came as no surprise when he grabbed your hips and used his hulking strength to push your clothed pussy to his scarred lips, his face nuzzled to your cunt, nose pressed firmly to your clit, and his greedy tongue lapping you up through the soiled fabric.
It was obscene and perverse and dirty and wrong.
But oh, how he loved it. Loved the heady taste you left on your panties, and the sweet scent of your gushing pussy, and the excess slick on your thighs that made its way onto his rough cheeks.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound against your skin that made your tummy squeeze into knots.
“T-Toji, please,” you whined, pressing your greedy cunt into his face, “need your tongue. Need you. Need more.” You could hardly string a true sentence together, and he hadn’t even fucked you proper yet.
His heart was thunderous against his chest.
And his dick?
Hardest it’s ever fuckin’ been in his fuckin’ life.
He was grinding his erection against the mattress as he obliged your wishes.
After all, how could he say no to you?
He pushed your panties to the side.
And oh.
His balls tightened below him, the urge to cum almost threateningly near as he stared at your bare, swollen pussy.
Holy. Shit.
Everything was soaked and glistening.
He rubbed one thumb across your puffy skin, his coarse finger getting soaked in the process.
He leaned in, gingerly licking fat stripes along your folds, lapping you up, drinking you in. He worked thoroughly, gathering you onto his tongue, until the lower part of his face was a mixture of your juices and his drool.
It was only after he was satisfied with his work did he make his way to your clit, humming and sucking, the wet sounds of his mouth making out with your cunt filling the air of his room.
The warm pleasure of it all was beginning to pool in your belly, your toes beginning to curl, legs beginning to shake – but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
“Toji, I might-”
He plunged a rough, thick finger inside you, spearing your tight velvet walls apart, all the way up to his knuckle.
You saw fuckin’ stars.
The sound you made was so erotic, so loud and depraved and raw, that his dick lurched in his pants, warm gooey pre-cum beginning to leak out from his throbbing tip and into his briefs.
He wanted to hear you again, and again and again and again.
He wanted videos, home movies, and spotify playlists of the way your pussy was talking to him.
Emboldened, his tongue was unrelenting on your clit, as one finger became two, and then two became three.
You mewled as he crooked them up, massaging against that soft, spongey bundle of nerves that had you panting his name out like it was prayer.
Your ears were ringing, your eyes beginning to get wet with tears.
Soon, he was fucking you on his fingers proper, setting a debilitating pace as he plunged his digits in and out and in and out. Filling you up, stretching you out, hitting your most sensitive areas. Again, and again, and again.
The pressure in your core was reaching its limits now, and the pleasure from the sheer fullness of your pussy and the sinful patterns of his tongue were beginning to send violent tremors down your legs.
You were orgasming before you even realized it.
And yet, he was didn’t stop – didn’t even give you time to breathe as he’s diving into your pussy, slurping you up, his large nose rubbing against your over-sensitive clit as he’s fucking his thick tongue and his fingers past the tight ring of your entrance, fucking you, warm and wet, through each of your peaks.
Your hands held onto his hair like a lifeline, your fleshy thighs locked around his head as if to keep him in place.
“You taste so good, sweetheart,” he moaned, his eyes glazed over, completely and utterly pussy drunk, as you looked down at him, his mouth still latched onto your cunt.
You could see your slick dripping down his face, mixing with the light trails of perspiration that sprouted from his temples.
Your heart squeezed in your chest.
It was only after the last few waves of your orgasm subsided when you could finally respond.
“I think,” you gently reached down to run your shaky hand through his scalp, tenderly pushing away the sweaty fringe by his eyes. “I think I can think of something that might taste better.”
And then you’re pushing him until he’s moving to the top of the bed, his back resting against the headboard as he pulls his black shirt up and over his head, triceps flexing, exposing his muscular pecs, washboard abs, and the light tufts of hair that sprouted on his chest, and got increasingly darker the further down his abs it went.
You could feel your pussy walls clamp down, warmth pooling in your core again as you reached out instinctively to run your hands along the length of his torso.
You never thought, in all of your wildest dreams, that this would be happening. Nor could your dreams do justice to the perfect build of the man before you.
“Well look at you, Mr. Fushiguro.” Your soft hands slowly sliding up, up, up against his skin, all the way from where the dark tufts of thick hair started to disappear under his pants, and towards his pecs, feeling the way his traitorous heart stuttered as you called his name. “Aren’t you quite the heartbreaker.”
You held his gaze, the air around you charged with anticipation.
Who would move first?
His breathing was shallow as he stared at you, your cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. Your top was rumpled to hell, exposing the line of your cleavage in a way that had his pants tenting painfully, and your mini skirt was so far scrunched that it looked like a belt around your waist.
“For others, sure…” He grabbed your hands, pressing them deeper into his skin as he slid them up to cup his face. “But for you?” he was whispering now, his ears growing steadily pinker by the second, “I’m afraid you have me beat.”
Oh.
And then you’re leaning in, tenderly pressing your lips to his own, mumbling his name over and over again to stop you from saying those other three little words, before sealing it with your tongue.
And then he’s pulling you into his lap.
You could taste yourself in his mouth and on his lips, your nipples tightening as his large hands grabbed handfuls of your ass, spreading your cheeks apart before making them clap together again.
A muffled groan escaped from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your mouth, as he felt new gushes of your slick begin to dampen the front of his pants.
“Mmmnh- get comfortable, pretty girl.” He slurred out as he pulled at the waistband of your skirt, before letting go, allowing the material to slap against your skin with a light sting.
“Hmm… only if daddy gets comfortable too.” your eyes were big as you stared at him through your lashes.
And oh fuck.
Toji had to lean his head back, his skull hitting against the wall with a dull thud!
The way the words left your mouth had him breathless, brain short-circuiting, and dick throbbing. He needed to recuperate. Calm down.
Breathe in. Exhale. Repeat.
You smiled slyly, completely aware of how your words affected him, as you pulled your flimsy top off, followed by your bottomwear. Your tits were heavy and full as they were released from the cotton, nipples peaked and stiff.
You were bare before him, your arms on either side of his hips, squeezing your tits together lightly as you bent low to whisper against his ear.
“You like when I call you that?” Your voice was sweet as honey as your hands traced the large outline of his dick through his pants, gripping his shaft through the tight material, and feeling the monstrous size of his girth.
“Careful, sweetheart,” his voice was a mixture of restraint and warning, “don’t start callin’ me that unless y’er tryna see it through.” His neck was visibly tense, and his hands clutched on to the meat of your hips as he stared at you.
Pretty girl.
He squeezed tighter.
His pretty girl.
A moment of silence passed as you considered his words. “And what if I do wanna see it through…?” Your head tilted cutely while your mean hands found their way to his happy trail, running your nails down through the thick tufts of dark hair, dipping juuust below the waistband of his pants, before retreating back up again in slow, agonizing loops. “Show me your worst, daddy.”
And who was he to deny you?
Before you knew it, he had his pants and briefs shoved down his legs, his massive cock heavily thudding against his washboard abs
Your mouth gaped open.
And ohhh how he relished the dumb look on your lil’ cute face.
You didn’t even think anyone could be this large.
Yet here he was, with a dick that looked like it belonged in a porno, pulsing fat and heavy and huge as he leaked pre-cum all over the angry mushroomed head.
He smirked, cocky as ever, as you subconsciously licked your lips, eyes glazed over, cock drunk just off the look alone.
Your pussy gushed warm, new slick between your legs as you carefully leant down, your hands grabbing around his base, slowly bringing his dick closer to your face.
He could feel the warm puffs of air coming from ur plush lips, his dick twitching like crazy at how close you were to finally, finally getting your mouth on him.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his leaking slit, before running your lips over the excess pre-cum, painting your lips with the milky substance.
He swallowed hard. His eyes were wild and his breathing ragged.
He groped your tits, rolling your stiff nipples in his calloused fingers, eliciting the sweetest moan from you that reverberated around his dick.
You gave him small kitten licks at first, teasing the idea, before gradually licking thick fat stripes up and down the length of his huge dick. You traced the pulsing veins that climbed up his hot shaft and licked around the sensitive underside of his throbbing cockhead.
And it was only when his chest was heaving, his impatient hands gripping onto your skull, did you finally, finally begin to throat fuck the shit outta him.
None of the videos he had watched of you before even came close to the sensation of seeing the bulge forming in your throat from where his cock was buried inside of you, or the way your nose tickled against the tufts of dark hair at the base of his cock.
You moaned dreamily around him at the feeling of his heavy dick pounding against the back of your throat, filling your mouth and overwhelming your senses. You couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes as you bobbed him in your mouth, hands jerking off what you couldn’t reach, and your thighs rubbing together greedily, craving any ounce of friction against your throbbing pussy.
But before you knew it, he was lifting you off, a light string of saliva following en suit, connecting the two of you together.
“What’s wrong?” You had a devilish grin on your pretty face. “Scared you're gonna cum too quick?”
A low, humorless chuckle rumbled through his body as one of his hands wrapped around your throat, while the other smacked your ass.
“Nah,” his canines glinted in the lowlight, a predatorial grin etching into his features. “Just tryna make sure nothin’ gets wasted.” And then he's shifting you up, rubbing his thick cock against your gooey cunt, mixing his thick pre with your juices.
Your heart fluttered.
His dick was so warm against your skin – so, so much better (and bigger) than the toys you regularly used to get yourself off.
You’ve had enough. You’ve done your waiting. You needed him inside you.
You lifted yourself up, your hands bracing themselves on either side of Toji’s broad shoulders. Your pussy was dripping down onto his angry dick as you slowly lowered yourself, hips circling, letting his throbbing head trace your sopping lips.
He could have almost passed out from the sight alone.
Instead, he panted out a deep breath, his chest tightening as he tried to restrain himself from bucking up into your cunt.
You paused your hips, lowering yourself again ever so slightly so that his leaking head was now smooching against your gummy entrance, the heat of his cock stirring something warm and familiar in your belly.
Please, please, please, ple–
And then your pussy is swallowing his head whole.
“Oh, fuuuck you’re tight mama,” his eyes squeezed shut, fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead as Toji gasped out at the sensation of his thiiick cockhead squeezing past the tight ring of muscles at your entrance.
Your gummy walls sucked against him from all angles, squishing into his hardness and rubbing deliciously against the sensitive underside of his mushroomed tip.
And this was just the tip.
He didn’t know if he would make it out of here alive. At least, without getting you pregnant.
You whimpered, actually fuckin’ whimpered his name as you reached down, touching where he was spearing you apart, your lips drawn thin and tight to accommodate for the sheer size of him.
“You’re so big Toji,” a tear rolled down your flushed cheek. “Look at how much more I gotta take.” And he did, he really did look. Because you began to let your finger slowly slide from where the two of you were connected, down, down, down to the tufts of hair at the base of his cock.
“Haah- Ya’ think it’ll fit, sweetheart?” He grunted, his lips involuntarily bucking as you pouted cutely at him.
Something impassable flashed across your feature. “I’ll make it fuckin’ fit.”
And then you’re slamming down onto his dick, and it feels like the literal wind gets knocked out of both of your chests.
He has never felt something so deliciously tight before.
You have never felt so goddamn filled up before.
You’re clenching around him, velvet walls fluttering and smooching around his raw cock as it pulses heavy and thick with animalistic need.
It took you several moments to orient yourself, to gather your scrambled senses back together to remember what you were doing, what your goal was, why you were here.
“I have a secret to tell you.” You stared down at him, an unreadable look passing over your features.
“O-oh really?” you squeezed your walls around him, catching him off guard.
“I know you watch me touch myself,” you whispered it like it was a secret, sly and just a touch proud.
And of all the things you could’ve said, nothing would have prepared him for that.
His dick bobbed from inside of you.
“Fushi-daddy420 isn’t the most subtlest of names, no?” you grinned meanly as you watched his jade eyes turn impossibly black as you began to slowly, teasingly, mercifully bounce on his cock. Up and down and up and down.
“But-?”
He thought you would hate him if you knew.
He agonized for days for this reaction?!!
“And after you ran out on me after seeing my place?” you were panting, riding him as you talked. “Yea, that kinda solidified it.”
And just when he thinks you’ve found your rhythm and set your pace, you slowly begin to circle your hips, hitting new angles deep inside your guts that have his throbbing tip pressing into the spongy part of your pussy.
“You don’t -fuhh- don’t hate me?” his mind was swirling, how could he focus when you felt this good?
“Never.” Your hips rolled, and you pressed your tits together, giving him a show.
And you were doing so well, and felt so good. He pressed a fat thumb against your clit, spelling out his name, as if to claim you, mark you, over and over and over again.
T-O-J-I !
He throws his head back as he feels you creaming around his cock, while your eyes are rolling into the backs of your head as you feel his thick goopy pre frothing at your entrance, dripping down onto his balls. The pace is getting faster, the air getting hot, and thick beads of sweat are rolling down your back. The obscene sounds of sweaty skin slapping against skin filled the hot, sex-scented air.
You lean down to kiss him, tongues messily entangling, drool spilling from the sides of your lips as you ride his cock like a fuckin’ animal, ass jiggling from the force of his hips rocking up to meet you, his heavy balls smacking against your pussy like a promise.
In one swift motion, he’s flipping the two of you over, your back to the bed, his dick never leaving your pussy, as he continues to fuck into you. He has your legs spread wide, your knees to his sides as he buries himself deep within your warmth, the new angle allowing you to feel his fat tip smooching against your cervix.
He’s panting, breath shaky as he slows down, rutting shallowly, not allowing himself to be too far from your gummy insides. “T-tell me where you want it,” his voice came out strained, and you could see where his veins were protruding on his neck.
Oh. His cum.
His balls were pressed against you, tightening with every passing second. You could feel his dick bobbing against your walls as he was direly trying to stop himself from cumming.
You smiled, soft and sweet, as you pressed a hand against your lower tummy, feeling the bulge of where he was nestled inside you.
“Oh, you already know,” and you were batting your pretty lashes up at him, making his heart stutter. “Isn’t that right, daddy?”
And oh, how his broken mind snapped.
The next thing you knew, he’s pressing your knees so far up they’re knocking against your tits, his hulking body leaning over and pressing down into you, chest against chest, until you could feel his warm lips sucking bruises by your ear.
And then he’s draaagging his thick cock through your pussy until only the tip is inside you, before snapping his hips forward, forcing his cock the deepest it could go back inside you, spearing you apart, and setting an absolutely cruel, delicious, depraved pace that has his balls bruising your ass and his cock breeching your womb.
It goes for what feels like seconds, minutes, hours.
Your legs began to shake at all the sensations, your pussy walls convulsing around him and your ears ringing as you started to see white.
And he truly couldn’t keep it in any longer.
Not when you sounded so hot, with your face scrunched up in the prettiest ‘o’ and your nails digging crescents into his back as you called his name, begging for his seed.
And so he bucked up, his hips flush against yours, locking you into the meanest of mating presses, as his dick lurched, balls scrunching, as he pumped copious amounts of his thick, sticky cum straight into your womb.
And he’s still bucking his hips, through each of your peaks, fucking his cum deep inside you, until your belly was bloated and full of him.
“Thattaa girl,” he pressed a warm kiss to your mouth as he fucked you through the last few peaks of your orgasms, gingerly swiping his thumb across your cheek as if you were something precious. “My girl.”
And later on, as you softly drifted to sleep, with a belly full of his cum and his softening dick still inside you, you could feel his scarred lips pressing light kisses across your face, and the mumblings of something that sounded vaguely too close to “iloveyou” whispered into your warm skin.
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Five weeks passed, and the Michigan Wolverines were in the midst of the NCAA College Football Championships.
After weeks of non-stop practice, conditioning, strength training, and late-night film recaps, the team of 100-odd men were finally going up against their biggest competitor in the nation.
There was much on the line, but thankfully, Senior Quarterback and Captain, Toji Fushiguro, had quite the good luck charm on his side.
Not only did he pass Kinetics (albeit by the skin of his teeth, thanks to you), but he now had a new, fool-proof pre-game regimen (with an even better success rate!).
He still kept his same protein shake recipe.
He still kept his same choice of attire.
But this time around, he needed at least one hour of your undivided attention, with the provision that his cock be buried so deep and raw inside your trembling cunt that you could feel him in your womb.
And it was only after intense, depraved, animalistic fucking, with your pussy stuffed full of his gooey cum, and hickies in the shape of a ‘T’ on your neck, could the 6’4 230 lbs man say with absolute certainty, that this championship was in the god damn bag.
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The Wolverines won their final round of the playoffs in a sweeping victory: 52-38.
And the star quarterback of the show could not wait to celebrate with you, his pretty lil’ girlfriend.
feat quarterback!toji x camgirl chem partner!reader
summary: Toji Fushiguro considers himself a very generous man, especially after using part of his D1 quarterback paycheck towards his favorite camgirl. If anything, he's a patron of the arts: dedicated, curious, and always ready for the next big thing. So when he finds out his quiet little chem partner has the same bedroom as his idol? Well... color him intrigued.
content: MDNI 18+ ONLY, fem!reader, camgirl!reader, chem partner!reader, quarterback!toji, fratboy!toji fanboy!toji, jjk college au, no use of “y/n”, prn with a ridiculous amount of plot, oral (m!receiving, f!receiving), piv, squírtíng, dumbification, toji has a biiiiig d, dáddy k!nk, size k!nk, brééding, etc.
word count: 10.1k (i don't play abt this man)
author's note: all credits of the above pictures go to their creators. The left-most picture is from thatsallitchief on X or tiktok. If anyone knows the artist of the right-most picture let me know so I can tag them!
toji's pre-game playlist: gemstone - don toliver, homecoming - lil uzi vert, don't kill the party - ty dolla $ign, love me - lil wayne, you - don toliver, nightcrawler - travis scott
These were intense times.
The Michigan Wolverines were right in the midst of the NCAA College Football Playoffs, and it has been weeks of non-stop practice, conditioning, strength training, and late-night film recaps for the team of 100-odd men–all in preparation for a chance at being the nation’s top seed.
There was much on the line, especially seeing that Senior Quarterback and Captain, Toji Fushiguro, was aiming to secure his spot in the upcoming NFL draft.
As such, his pre-game ritual (one that he has refined and perfected over the course of four years) was a strict routine backed by, and rooted down in, evidence-based science and partially unbiased statistical analyses.
It all starts with his protein shake: two whole bananas, one cup of oats, a shit ton of peanut butter, one spoon of raw honey, four scoops of protein powder, and full-fat milk.
Next, his attire. He needed his signature gray game-day sweats (unwashed for the past 10-games in a row), a muscle tank he’s owned and stretched out since high school, and his most industrial-grade, noise-cancelling headphones.
As for schedule? He needed thirty minutes of privacy, unrestricted and uninterrupted access to high speed internet, and most importantly of all: he needed to watch at least two of “stargiirl_xx”’s videos prior to heading out onto the turf.
Give him that, and he was bound to have a fuckin’ phenomenal performance on the field.
His meaty hand was already squeezing his growing erection through his sweats, the thick outline of his cock visible against the backlight from stargiirl’s newest video loading up on his laptop screen, and his protein shake already half finished by his bedside table.
He wasn’t just a fan. He was her #1 biggest financer.
Though she never showed her face, he had come to memorize the curve of stargiirl’s thighs and the moles on her hips over the course of the years. He knew her room layout by heart, and diligently watched the animes that she kept posters of on her walls.
She was the best of the best. Not showy, not performative, just purely indulging herself.
And sure, if keeping her active meant donating a sizable portion of his D1 stipend to fund her… pursuits, well, then call him a patron of the arts.
His dick shamelessly pulsed in his pants as the page finally stopped buffering and the title of the video loaded.
“Lessons in Vibrations Pt I”.
Part one?!
He knew almost immediately that tonight’s game would be a fantastic one.
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The Wolverines won their first round of the playoffs in a sweeping victory: 41-20.
And Toji Fushiguro? Well, he was the star of the show, of course. He completed more than 85% of his passes (with six of them leading to touchdowns) and led an 80-yard rush all in a single game. He was on fire: skin buzzing with adrenaline, cool sweat dripping down his face, and his large canines glinting under the fierce stadium lights as the deafening crowds roared his name.
“To-ji! To-ji! To-ji!”
He felt indomitable, floating on a high all the way from the stadium, to the bus, to the afterparty.
But in the lecture hall? Well…
His grades were barely passing for the majority of his classes, and in fact they were quite below when it came to Applied Chemical Kinetics II.
He was truly a lost cause.
He had missed countless of Yaga’s lectures throughout the course of the semester, promising himself that he would catch up on the review notes (he didn’t) and trying to watch the recorded lectures on the bus rides to any of the away games (he never).
So really, it came as no surprise to anyone when he absolutely tanked his midterms those six long weeks ago.
At the time, he was desperate. Failing class meant getting booted off the team. He needed someone who could easily cover his sorry ass for the rest of the semester, and fast.
Therefore, the obvious choices for a final project partner were between Ijichi and, well, you.
And, seeing as Toji Fushiguro had a pair of functioning fuckin’ eyes and a brain that lived partly in his pants, he chose the latter.
It wasn’t easy persuading you to take him on for the project, which was something he honestly didn’t quite expect (nor was he used to). You were stoic to his ill-attempted flattery and unaffected by his usual charm. Every smile he flashed at you seemed to wither upon arrival, and every playful remark was met with nothing more than an empty stare.
In the end, desperation drove him somewhere pride never would’ve allowed before: straight into his football stipend.
“Listen. I’ll give you $300 if you can help me pass this class.”
It was the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving break, and he remembered how his words rang loud and heavy in the dusty air of the old lecture hall. Everyone had left at this point, the class long-since over.
You had stood before him unmoved, your books hugged to your chest and your normally impassive gaze slowly piquing in interest.
He remembered how you looked up at him through your lashes, and the way you tilted your head almost cutely. “Make it $400,” you said it softly, yet with little hesitation.
He remembered how he felt himself gulp, not from the number, but at the way your eyes were scanning his face like it was the first time you even noticed him.
His hand had gripped the strap of his backpack just a little tighter.
Though, you didn’t seem to notice as you continued. “I’ll meet you on Mondays and Thursdays only, I work every other day. And I want half as security in advance.”
You pulled out your phone, swiftly punching in your password before holding it out to him, the contacts app already open on the screen.
For the first time in all of his college experience, he was genuinely caught off guard.
What the fuck?
He took your phone.
“$400?” he repeated, huffing faintly under his breath (was he amused? Annoyed? Aroused? He couldn’t tell at the time, nor does he know now) as he typed in his number. His large hands looked almost comical holding your small device. “You rob everybody like this, or am I just that special?”
He handed your phone back, his calloused fingers gently grazing your warm ones.
“You’re failing chem,” you replied flatly. “You are not special.”
He hated how his dick twitched at your words.
But most of all, he hated how he didn’t know what to say in response.
He was the star quarterback, captain of the football team, most popular guy on campus and an undeniable chick-magnet, for god’s sake!
His silence surprised the both of you, and you took it as your queue to leave. “See you later,” you glanced down at your phone, looking at his contact. “Fushiguro.”
You didn’t even know his fuckin’ name?!
And with that, you gently breezed past him, only offering him a small nod as you walked out of the room. The scent of your shampoo faintly caught in his nose as he tried to will his boner to stop growing in his sweats.
After that, the break passed uneventfully, and by the time campus filled back up again and the chill of early winter settled in, your project was impossible to ignore.
He kept to his word of paying you the $200 in advance.
You kept to yours by meeting him that following Monday.
The two of you developed a routine during the second half of the semester, meeting in libraries and cafes to review material and project timelines for the final submission.
And during those couple of hours on the Mondays and Thursdays that he had you, he came to the haunting realization that you were so… chill.
He was blunt, but you were blunt back. You flicked him when his head got too large, and he flicked you whenever you were too stuck in yours. He shoved you out of your shell at times, while you pulled him back down to Earth. It was rare, and so fuckin’ odd, this kind of dynamic between the two of you, the kind that goes unnoticed until suddenly you realize it’s there.
Soon, he would find himself calling your name from across the quad, and you would nod with what looked like a smile at him when you passed his row in lecture. He gave you tickets to his games (which you would resell for 200% of its value), and put your name on the list for the Kappa parties despite you never showing up. You sent him stupid instagram posts, and brought him homemade coffees whenever the two of you met post-game days.
And thankfully for Toji, today was one of those days.
“How’d it go?” Your voice was like honey and wine, low and smooth, as you looked up at him from behind your computer. The light from your screen illuminated halos in your eyes, and the steam from his opened thermos curled languidly in the air between you both.
You sat across from him in a quiet, off-campus cafe.
He grinned, smug and wolfish and borderline sleazy, as if he’d been just waiting for you to ask. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his overwhelmingly large, muscular arms over his head. He made a point to subtly flex his biceps while under your scrutiny. His shirt lifted slightly above his abdomen, and you blinked your eyes to focus on the scar on his tanned face, rather than the dark happy trail that ran down, down, down to his…
“Perfect game. You’d know if you actually came ‘round ‘n watched.” He playfully winked, his deep chuckle echoing as you gave him a deadpan stare.
“I’m quite alright, Fushiguro.” He pouted in mock defeat as you looked back down at your screen. The battery symbol on your laptop flashed red in warning: low power.
You’d only been there for thirty minutes and you could’ve sworn you charged the damn thing last night. Sure, your outlets were kind of fucked, and sure this was a twelve year old laptop with a battery life the size of a peanut, but surely it wouldn’t give out on you this early in the day?!
You exhaled a long breath. The thought of putting money down for a new computer made your heart physically ache.
The two of you (mainly you) had just started to make headway with the report (“flow state”, as Toji would call it), and you knew you wouldn’t have a chance to work on the project again until after your Wednesday shift. “You got a charger on you?”
He scoffed, almost offendedly. “Wanna try askin’ that again sweetheart?” He tsked you lightly.
You rolled your eyes, a heavy sigh tumbling out of your soft lips.
“Forget it. I know you don’t,” there was something prickly beneath your uncaring tone, and he curiously paused to examine you.
He could see the faint circles under your eyes that you tried to cover with concealer, the way your shoulders sagged slightly from the weight of your backpack as you lifted it from the seat beside you, and the brief glimpse of all the mini bookmarks sticking out of your planner as you dropped it inside the bag.
“I guess we’ll have to call it here then. I’d need to go back to my apartment and grab my charger to do anything else.”
And, perhaps it was because the two of you had formed this unexpected bond over the past several weeks, something deep and quiet and far more important than Toji would ever willingly name, that the weight of being the weakest link finally made Toji Fushiguro feel the heavy hammer of guilt bury deep within his hardened chest.
A moment passed before he cleared his throat, holding up his hand.
“Or…” the words were slow to move out of his mouth, embarrassment thickening in his throat. “Why don’t we work there?” You stared at him, almost startled, as if he’d grown another head. His ears warmed under the intensity of your gaze as he continued. “I still got power, I can keep goin’ if you’re down.”
His triceps flexed as he scratched the back of his neck, tan skin pulling taut as he looked away.
“It’s a small place,” you warned.
He shrugged, his voice catching in his throat at the way you were holding his gaze. “I don’t mind. I’d go any place you choose.”
He paused, his eyes widening slightly at the words that tumbled out of his mouth, as if he didn’t realize what he said until after he said them.
You breathed, and a beat passed before a small, pretty smile pulled across your features – the first he’s ever gotten from you like this. And this time, your tired eyes warmed into something soft, something akin to appreciation, something new.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, then I’d like that.” You tilted your head slightly, and his heart thumped oddly loud in his muscular chest. “Thank you, Toji.”
For just the briefest of moments, you looked at him as if he had just offered the world.
All he could do was swallow and nod.
He didn’t even realize you called him by his first name until you were both out the door.
The walk to your apartment was comfortably silent. Despite Toji’s taller stature and athletic build, he wordlessly matched your slower pace, walking between you and the road.
Your apartment was situated right on the outskirts of campus; too close to drive, but too cumbersome to walk. He quietly marveled at your resolution to go in person to class every day, especially when he had difficulty hauling his ass to the lecture hall that was just a block over from frat row.
The taller man was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even realize how close he was standing to you as you both paused at your front doorstep. His towering frame loomed over you, and he could feel the heat of your body as you dug through your bag, and he could see the goosebumps that rose on your neck when your arm accidentally grazed against his abdomen.
Your keys softly clinked! together as you unlocked the front door.
And, there was something faintly intimate about being led up the creaky wooden steps to your 3rd floor apartment, your hips gently swaying in his face with each ascent up, and your soft hands lightly tracing the railing in your wake.
He intrusively thought about reaching out to touch your fingers, to run his hand along the curve of your waist–
He coughed lightly.
What was he thinking?
As you opened your apartment’s door, he was immediately hit with the light smell of lemon and jasmine.
Your place was small but tidy; a one-bedroom attic apartment where the kitchen and living area blurred together, soaking in the same sunlit space. Despite its size, it carried your mark: two types of server aprons hung on the coat rack, a soft crocheted throw blanket you made draped over the worn couch, and a set of reading glasses laying beside a hand-painted mug on your round window table.
It was cute; homely. A small glimpse into your life outside of class.
“You can start getting set up in here, I’ll just grab my charger from my room.” You spoke quietly as you led him to the table.
You silently turned before he could respond, padding across the old wooden floors to the door that was directly across from where he had set his bag down.
He had only just started typing his password into his computer when he lazily looked up, his dark eyes catching the movement from your room.
And, holy shit.
No.
There was genuinely no way in hell.
He was scrambling up out of your wobbly kitchen chair before his mind could even register it.
His body felt as if it were moving through water, and his brain felt like jam. Was that his own blood roaring past his ears or his soul escaping his body?
Cool beads of sweat began to form on his neck, tickling at the ends of his dark, grungy hair. He had crossed the width of your apartment in three long strides, until suddenly he was at your doorframe, his large body leaning against it like it was a lifeline, and his scarred mouth parted into the dumbest looking “o”.
His wild eyes scanned your room fervently. The walls, the Cowboy Bebop poster by your bedframe, the pale linen sheets, the empty vase on your bedside table and the stack of yellowing paper backs in the corner of it.
Everything looked familiar.
Scratch that. Everything looked the same. The same as–
“Can I help you?”
You were on all fours. All fuckin’ fours.
You tilted your head up to face him, taking a pause from wiggling the stubborn plug out of the ancient socket underneath your desk.
And… could you? Can you? He was at a genuine loss for words.
All he could do was stare dumbly, his large fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and his body emanating a heat that he prayed to god wasn’t visible from where you were.
“Uh. Y-you got a bathroom up here??”
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He scoured through every single video and rewatched every single clip that night.
The furniture, the decor, the walls, the window placement: everything was the same.
And so, the verdict was in: you–his quiet, guarded, asocial, and steely chem partner–were none other than stargiirl herself.
What. The. Fuck.
It was confusing to wrap his head around, this whole stargiirl-chemgirl business. But would he go as far to say that it wasn’t attractive? That he didn’t pop a boner every time he thought about it?
No. He couldn’t. He’d never.
Was this divine intervention or his own personal hell?
He couldn’t tell.
What does this mean? How should he act? What does he fucking do with this information now?
He rubbed his temples before running a tense hand through his hair. At the same time, a notification popped up on his computer.
“Check out a new post from stargiirl_xx !”
He could feel the blood in his veins thumping against his skin.
“Don’t do it. Please don’t fucking do it-” he mumbled.
He tapped into the link despite himself.
“Lessons In Vibration Pt II”
He wordlessly clicked the play button on the video.
For a moment, he thought his screen was buffering. The camera was set up to look out onto your bed, though you were not in frame yet, presumably twiddling with the settings of your camera.
But when you finally did walk into view, his heart nearly imploded.
The frame only showed you from the mouth down, your identity mainly concealed. You were bottomless, bare legs walking across the floor as you situated yourself on your bed. The only piece of clothing you did have on was an overlarge sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, one that he, in his panicked daze to get out of your apartment earlier, forgot he had left behind.
He didn’t dare breathe, nor could he move. His head was craned so close to his computer, as if he wanted to go through the screen itself just to get a better look.
He noted how his hoodie fell past your ass, large and consuming and honestly? So fuckin’ perfect on you.
You were nearing the end of your normal introduction, and he realized you spoke differently on video, low and confident and sensual and hypnotic.
“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about my content throughout the years,” your hands started to draaag the bottom of his hoodie up, letting it bunch just slightly above the dip of your waist, enunciating your curves. “-And I’ve realized I’ve never had a partner during any of them.”
The comments on the side bar started to flood through, hundreds of viewers already volunteering themselves to be your +1.
His jaw ticked, hard.
“I think,” you leaned forward like you were sharing a secret. Toji gripped onto his computer until a faint pop! could be heard of one of the inner screws coming loose. “I think I would like to change that in the future,” and then you smiled, really smiled, a full, playful grin wiping across your features in a way he had never been able to see in person before.
His dick bobbed in his pants.
This could not be happening to him right now.
You continued, “but for now, welcome back to my Lessons in Vibrations series.”
He watched as you started introducing the toys you would be using today, before you slowly began to touch yourself, teasingly showing glimpses of the purple lace panties you had on underneath his hoodie.
And he couldn’t help it, really.
Because when you started rubbing your vibrator against your clit, your deft fingers plunging skillfully into your cunt, soft whimpers escaping your lips as your pussy started squelching out a fucking melody – all while wearing his fuckin’ sweatshirt – what the fuck else was he supposed to do?
His sweats were already halfway down his thighs, and his meaty hand greedily pumping his own cock in sync to you fucking yourself on your fingers.
He watched hungrily as you pushed his sweatshirt up further along your body, exposing your stomach, teasing the view of your bare tits. He bit back a groan at the thought of your scent lingering in the fabric, and prayed to whatever deity above that you wouldn’t wash it out before he got it back.
Below, your fingers languidly teased the head of your vibrator against your entrance. It was the insertable kind, with a slender tip and curved body, the type that had your hole trying to suck up the device with every rub against your dripping slit.
He could feel the veins in his cock pulsing hotly in anticipation, pushing up thick pearls of precum out onto his flared tip.
He wondered what it would be like to slip his shaft against your drenched pussy lips, to massage the underside of his cockhead against the tight ring of your entrance, to feel you squeezing around him, and to hear the sounds you would make just for him.
He gulped, cool sweat starting to form on his brow. You were beginning to fuck the device into you, pumping the vibrator in and out and in and out. He could see your legs trembling, your juices starting to uncontrollably splash outside of you, and your pussylips fluttering with every bzzz bzz bzzzzzt of the vibrator fucking and swirling and massaging into your g-spot.
He was matching your pace, furiously pumping his dick, thinking about how you looked on all fours earlier, thinking about how you smiled when you called him his name, thinking about how you look when you concentrate and the mole above your brow, thinking about the coffee you made for him and the weird shitposts you sent and the way you could look at him like he was nothing, and everything, all at the same time.
And suddenly, he wasn’t climaxing to the stargiirl he had always seen on screen.
It was his tough, quiet, calm chem partner.
And as he shot hot spurts of thick, ropey cum all the way from his dick to his chin (the most he’s ever released before), he realized only one thing.
He just finished to the thought of you.
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Toji Fushiguro had a problem.
No, scratch that.
He had a fucking crisis.
It was drill day, and his head was absolutely nowhere near the turf. He fumbled balls, missed targets, and was a full thirty-seconds under his usual sprint times.
And that was only how one of his practices went this week.
It had been five whole days since he last saw you.
Five days of being dogshit at his sport.
Five days of holing up in his frat, avoiding campus, avoiding class, avoiding your texts, avoiding you.
It’s not like he wanted to do this, but he didn’t know what to do, how to act, or what to even say.
How could he talk to you casually while knowing he’s given probably a third of his checks to you? How could he be normal in your presence knowing that he’s watched every single one of your streams, and in turn has finished an embarrassing amount of times to each of them?
How could he trust himself when the thought of you alone had his heart pounding so hard his ears hurt? Or how his chest squeezed so tight he almost went to urgent care, just because you texted asking where he’s been and if he was okay?
How could he face you, knowing that he somehow developed the largest, fattest, most egregious fuckin’ crush on you?!
And, for the record, Toji Fushiguro did not do crushes. He hadn’t necessarily “ran through” the entire roster of available chicks on campus, but he did have an occasional fling, nothing serious, nothing long, nothing that would distract him from football and his dreams.
He was known as the campus heartthrob and heartbreaker. He was Mr. Non-Chalant, Mr. Everybody-Wants-A-Piece-of-Him, and Mr. I-Don’t-Get-Attached all wrapped up in one 6’4, 230 lbs body.
A crush? That was new, unexplored territory for him.
He stared down at your last texts to him.
⭐️ (Thursday, 12:03pm): i got us a nice spot!! im sitting on 2nd floor @ clark ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
Ba-dump!
⭐️ (Thursday, 12:18pm): knock knock, is mr. toji theree
Ba-dump! Ba-dump!
⭐️ (Thursday, 12:56pm): hey, is everythin ok? r we still on for today?
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–
⭐️ (Saturday, 10:01am): r u alive
It physically sickened him that he couldn’t get his cowardly fingers to just fucking write back. But every time he opened up your text chain, all he could do was stare.
Which is exactly why he couldn’t see you yet.
He needed time.
He needed space.
He needed to get this shit under control.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him, the Kappa Epsilon fraternity was throwing a rager tonight. With the group of men only one week out from the next bracket of playoffs, this would be the last night the football frat would get to drink together for a while if they were to make it to the finals.
It would be the perfect distraction.
About an hour or so into the party and he was buzzed. He absolutely demolished that shithead Ryomen in beer pong, crushed a pack of PBRs, and now was cooling off in the kitchen, his body feeling swimmy and light.
He reached for his phone. Maybe, just maybe, if he looked at your messages again for the umpteenth time today, maybe he would know what to say, maybe he–
“Ah, so you can come out and party but ignore all of my texts?”
His heart did that stupid thing where it pounded so hard against his chest he wondered if his ribs bruised.
Despite the booming of the bass coming from the room over, and the idle chatter of randoms idling in the kitchen, he could hear the dry, unimpressed, and entirely too familiar voice coming directly from behind him.
He turned, his eyes lowering to find you, as if it was muscle memory, as if it was his second nature.
You never showed up to these parties (and trust, he has invited you to them all). Yet here you were, your body leaned up against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over your chest, and your hair falling around your frame.
He grinned, the buzz in his head making it easy for a stupidly cheeky and wide and boyish smile to plaster onto his face. (a/n: toji has a hung smile. Okay? Okay.).
“Hey, party animal,” he said, almost dreamily.
The top you wore clung to you like a second skin, accentuating the swells of your breasts and the dip of your waist: features that you usually hid underneath your normal, bulkier campus-attire.
He was indecisive, his eyes bouncing between the unreadable look on your face to the sliver of exposed skin right above your miniskirt.
You looked good, really fuckin’ good.
Your eyes widened, before your cheeks blushed the prettiest shade of red, your manicured fingers tightening around the plastic solo cup you were holding
Did he say that outloud?!
You straightened, steeling yourself, willing the warmth in your cheeks to go away. “You’ve ignored me for five days, Fushiguro-” your voice was firm and cool, cutting sharply through the noise of the party.
Back to the last name basis.
You looked away, before adding, “-and you ditched me on Thursday.” You spoke that last part softly, deliberately, a look of sadness flashing briefly in your pretty, doe-like eyes.
A dull pang rippled through his chest.
He knew the implications of your words – the two of you never missed a meetup since this whole “deal” started.
And, like those days in the libraries or cafes where he found himself sitting before you, following your every word and direction, he now found himself moving towards you, a small pout forming on his scarred lips, as his strong arms caged you in until you were wedged between himself and the counter.
And, you knew he was huge before.
But now, up close, you realized just how large he was - his broad shoulders obscuring your view, his muscular chest rippling under the tight black shirt he wore, and his huge hands riddled with veins that climbed up, up, up his forearms.
He was overwhelming and all-consuming, surrounding your senses with the kind of intensity only he alone could pull off. You breathed in, your chest rising, fighting against the cotton of your ill-fitting top. He smelled of fresh pine and warm leather, clean and raw and manly.
You came here pissed, but now found your resolve completely fogged and muddled.
He leaned forward, dipping his head low, until his shaggy fringe tickled softly against the shell of your ear.
You knew he had been drinking, but the question was, did he know what he was doing right now? Was this purposeful? Was this real? You couldn’t quite tell, but the way his breath stuttered as his nose traced light patterns into your neck, the way he was breathing you in, and the way his hands periodically clenched onto the countertop as if to restrain himself, told you he was at least semi aware of what he was doing.
Your heart was hammering in your chest. The two of you never stood this close before, let alone touched each other.
You turned your head slightly, trying to put at least some ounce of space between your face and his.
But for him? That just would not do.
He slowly pulled away from your neck, his nose lightly mapping a path from the base of your neck, across the soft expanse of your cheek, to the tip of your own. Noses brushing, breaths mingling, chests heaving, and hearts pounding as his scarred lips hovered your glossed ones.
“Why have you been avoiding me?”
The air between you was warm and thick, charged with something tender and so deeply intimate.
“Because you scare me,” he mumbled.
“Oh, really?” Your mouth twitched.
“Mm.” He nodded once, nose rubbing softly against yours in an eskimo kiss. You could see how his eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, lips dangerously close to pressing against yours.
“‘Think ya cursed me.” His neck flushed red, his low voice was barely above a whisper.
“I can go-”
“Don’t.”
And then his large hands were latching onto your waist, the heat of his skin searing through the thin material of your skirt.
“Don’t. Don’tDon’tDon’t.” His brows scrunched together, his face becoming serious. “Don’t go. Don’t leave. Not when you’re here, with me, pretty girl.”
You breathed, taking your time to steady your voice after hearing the pet name roll off his tongue. “Then what should I do?”
“Stay.”
It was as simple as that, really.
And then his lips were on yours, warm and soft and commanding. He kissed you like you were sin, drinking you in, savoring you on his tongue, before inevitably, always inevitably, going back for more. He didn’t let you breathe; he wouldn’t. He was greedy and wrong and possessive, claiming your mouth like it was his alone to conquer. Your knees weakened as his tongue massaged against yours addictively, molding against you like you were made for him; like he was made for you.
Your hands moved before you could think, before you could decide if you were angry with him or if you hungered for him. You found purchase on his broad shoulders, before making your way up, up, up to his neck, one hand running through his dark hair while the other held onto the underside of his strong jaw, thumb gently caressing the scar on the side of his mouth, pulling him in.
He pressed into you further, your ass hitting the lower counter. His body was flush against yours, his chest purposefully rubbing against your tits.
He could feel your nipples hardening through the flimsy cotton of your top, and he couldn’t stop the sleazy grin that was forming on his face.
Below, his grip on you was gentle but firm, bringing your body to press and grind against his in an unhurried, languid way, like he had all the time in the world, like all of this was fated from the start.
And his fingers, oh his fingers, which spanned across your hip, slowly found their way to your ass, gripping and cupping and kneading into the soft, jiggly flesh.
You could feel something move against your thigh, something sturdy and heavy and completely fucking monstruous.
“Haah-” you shakily sighed out, breathy and dazed as you looked down to the outline of his bulge. Your eyes widened.
“I like when you use that smart mouth, y’know,” he was talking against your lips, not able to find it in himself to pull away. His hand slid up the side of your waist, until he stopped right underneath your breast, his thumb rubbing against the underside of where it started to swell.
His voice dropped an octave lower, whispering to you like it was a secret. “Talk to me. Break this curse. Tell me it’s not just me that feels like this.”
Please.
His heart was racing. He was stone cold sober. This was it. This was his admission.
ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–
You breathed.
The party raged on in the background, muddled and distant, like his ears were submerged under water–
“It’s not just you, Toji.”
Your voice was quiet, your cheeks tinted rouge, your pretty eyes looking up at him in earnest.
And that was all he needed.
He picked you up like you were nothing (his bench was 350 lbs, squat 600 lbs, and his hip thrusts? don’t even worry ‘bout it), a smug, victorious grin tugging at his scarred lips.
He carried you out of the kitchen, and a steady stream of wolf whistles and howls erupted from his frat brothers and party goers as the two of you made your way across the foyer, up the stairs, and towards a bedroom. His bedroom.
He carried you inside, keeping the lights off, letting the warm glow of the streetlamp beside his window spill softly across the room. Without a word, he set you down on his large king-sized bed.
The air in his room was tender and still. You could hear the faint bass of the stereo downstairs, vibrating against his wooden floors like a heartbeat. The distant cheers of the crowd down below faded to quiet as he pressed his mouth to your own.
He leisurely climbed over you, never breaking the kiss, his muscular arms holding his body above your own.
It didn’t take long for the makeout to turn heated again, teeth clashing against teeth, bodies pressed against each other, rubbing and teasing in a way that had your head spinning.
You put your hands against his chest.
“Toji-”
“Stay,” he breathed, whispering the words against your lips, like he could read your mind. “-Stay with me tonight,” he pressed his body closer into you, rutting his hips, “and lemme show you the things I’ve been wantin’ to say to you all week.”
You could feel his cock twitch ominously against your bare thigh as you swallowed.
His lips were swollen and glistening from your mixed salivas, his eyes glazed over, jade irises almost completely black. His grip on your lower body was unrelenting, holding you in place.
You lightly pushed your hand against his chest, a hesitant look crossing your features.
A beat passed. For a second, he didn’t even realize he stopped breathing.
“You’ve been drinking,” You paused, your voice coming out small. “What if.. what if you don’t mean this in the morning?”
And for all your expertise and genius, oh, how completely wrong you could be.
He let out a humorless chuckle, his sharp canines peaking through his lips in the process.
“Did it sound like I was jokin’, sweetheart?” He shakily exhaled through his nose as he pressed his erection against your clothed cunt, holding himself there, letting you feel the pressure and full weight of what he was packing. “Does it feel like I’m jokin’ ‘bout this?”
You bit your lip, pussy throbbing, a warm slickness starting to soak through your panties, before messily spreading between your clenched thighs.
You shook your head.
“What’d I say about usin’ your words?”
He pulsed his dick, the sensation making your pussy clench.
Fuckin’ tease.
“Nngh- no. No it doesn’t feel like you’re joking,” you almost gasp out.
A satisfied smirk plastered onto his tanned face.
“Good girl.”
And then he’s moving down the bed, his calloused hands spreading your legs as he pressed wet kisses against the hot skin of your thighs. He was methodical and slow, making his way up your inner thigh, savoring the small sounds that you tried to suppress as he reached the bottom hem of your skirt, his face mere inches away from your sopping pussy, and his breath puffing warm air against your dampened panties .
“Ohhh jus’ look at ya,” you could tell he had the most shit-eating grin on his face right now, pride swelling in his voice as he carefully dipped a large, rough finger between the seam of the thin purple fabric you adorned. “This all f’me?”
And - Holy shit.
The videos of you didn’t even do this justice.
Because low and behold, here you were, under his body, and you were so fuckin’ wet. His finger slid against your folds with little resistance, putting just enough pressure that you couldn’t help but moan his name as he rubbed circles against your clit.
And, Toji Fushiguro never claimed to be a patient man. So, it should’ve came as no surprise when he grabbed your hips and used his hulking strength to push your clothed pussy to his scarred lips, his face nuzzled to your cunt, nose pressed firmly to your clit, and his greedy tongue lapping you up through the soiled fabric.
It was obscene and perverse and dirty and wrong.
But oh, how he loved it. Loved the heady taste you left on your panties, and the sweet scent of your gushing pussy, and the excess slick on your thighs that made its way onto his rough cheeks.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound against your skin that made your tummy squeeze into knots.
“T-Toji, please,” you whined, pressing your greedy cunt into his face, “need your tongue. Need you. Need more.” You could hardly string a true sentence together, and he hadn’t even fucked you proper yet.
His heart was thunderous against his chest.
And his dick?
Hardest it’s ever fuckin’ been in his fuckin’ life.
He was grinding his erection against the mattress as he obliged your wishes.
After all, how could he say no to you?
He pushed your panties to the side.
And oh.
His balls tightened below him, the urge to cum almost threateningly near as he stared at your bare, swollen pussy.
Holy. Shit.
Everything was soaked and glistening.
He rubbed one thumb across your puffy skin, his coarse finger getting soaked in the process.
He leaned in, gingerly licking fat stripes along your folds, lapping you up, drinking you in. He worked thoroughly, gathering you onto his tongue, until the lower part of his face was a mixture of your juices and his drool.
It was only after he was satisfied with his work did he make his way to your clit, humming and sucking, the wet sounds of his mouth making out with your cunt filling the air of his room.
The warm pleasure of it all was beginning to pool in your belly, your toes beginning to curl, legs beginning to shake – but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
“Toji, I might-”
He plunged a rough, thick finger inside you, spearing your tight velvet walls apart, all the way up to his knuckle.
You saw fuckin’ stars.
The sound you made was so erotic, so loud and depraved and raw, that his dick lurched in his pants, warm gooey pre-cum beginning to leak out from his throbbing tip and into his briefs.
He wanted to hear you again, and again and again and again.
He wanted videos, home movies, and spotify playlists of the way your pussy was talking to him.
Emboldened, his tongue was unrelenting on your clit, as one finger became two, and then two became three.
You mewled as he crooked them up, massaging against that soft, spongey bundle of nerves that had you panting his name out like it was prayer.
Your ears were ringing, your eyes beginning to get wet with tears.
Soon, he was fucking you on his fingers proper, setting a debilitating pace as he plunged his digits in and out and in and out. Filling you up, stretching you out, hitting your most sensitive areas. Again, and again, and again.
The pressure in your core was reaching its limits now, and the pleasure from the sheer fullness of your pussy and the sinful patterns of his tongue were beginning to send violent tremors down your legs.
You were orgasming before you even realized it.
And yet, he was didn’t stop – didn’t even give you time to breathe as he’s diving into your pussy, slurping you up, his large nose rubbing against your over-sensitive clit as he’s fucking his thick tongue and his fingers past the tight ring of your entrance, fucking you, warm and wet, through each of your peaks.
Your hands held onto his hair like a lifeline, your fleshy thighs locked around his head as if to keep him in place.
“You taste so good, sweetheart,” he moaned, his eyes glazed over, completely and utterly pussy drunk, as you looked down at him, his mouth still latched onto your cunt.
You could see your slick dripping down his face, mixing with the light trails of perspiration that sprouted from his temples.
Your heart squeezed in your chest.
It was only after the last few waves of your orgasm subsided when you could finally respond.
“I think,” you gently reached down to run your shaky hand through his scalp, tenderly pushing away the sweaty fringe by his eyes. “I think I can think of something that might taste better.”
And then you’re pushing him until he’s moving to the top of the bed, his back resting against the headboard as he pulls his black shirt up and over his head, triceps flexing, exposing his muscular pecs, washboard abs, and the light tufts of hair that sprouted on his chest, and got increasingly darker the further down his abs it went.
You could feel your pussy walls clamp down, warmth pooling in your core again as you reached out instinctively to run your hands along the length of his torso.
You never thought, in all of your wildest dreams, that this would be happening. Nor could your dreams do justice to the perfect build of the man before you.
“Well look at you, Mr. Fushiguro.” Your soft hands slowly sliding up, up, up against his skin, all the way from where the dark tufts of thick hair started to disappear under his pants, and towards his pecs, feeling the way his traitorous heart stuttered as you called his name. “Aren’t you quite the heartbreaker.”
You held his gaze, the air around you charged with anticipation.
Who would move first?
His breathing was shallow as he stared at you, your cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. Your top was rumpled to hell, exposing the line of your cleavage in a way that had his pants tenting painfully, and your mini skirt was so far scrunched that it looked like a belt around your waist.
“For others, sure…” He grabbed your hands, pressing them deeper into his skin as he slid them up to cup his face. “But for you?” he was whispering now, his ears growing steadily pinker by the second, “I’m afraid you have me beat.”
Oh.
And then you’re leaning in, tenderly pressing your lips to his own, mumbling his name over and over again to stop you from saying those other three little words, before sealing it with your tongue.
And then he’s pulling you into his lap.
You could taste yourself in his mouth and on his lips, your nipples tightening as his large hands grabbed handfuls of your ass, spreading your cheeks apart before making them clap together again.
A muffled groan escaped from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your mouth, as he felt new gushes of your slick begin to dampen the front of his pants.
“Mmmnh- get comfortable, pretty girl.” He slurred out as he pulled at the waistband of your skirt, before letting go, allowing the material to slap against your skin with a light sting.
“Hmm… only if daddy gets comfortable too.” your eyes were big as you stared at him through your lashes.
And oh fuck.
Toji had to lean his head back, his skull hitting against the wall with a dull thud!
The way the words left your mouth had him breathless, brain short-circuiting, and dick throbbing. He needed to recuperate. Calm down.
Breathe in. Exhale. Repeat.
You smiled slyly, completely aware of how your words affected him, as you pulled your flimsy top off, followed by your bottomwear. Your tits were heavy and full as they were released from the cotton, nipples peaked and stiff.
You were bare before him, your arms on either side of his hips, squeezing your tits together lightly as you bent low to whisper against his ear.
“You like when I call you that?” Your voice was sweet as honey as your hands traced the large outline of his dick through his pants, gripping his shaft through the tight material, and feeling the monstrous size of his girth.
“Careful, sweetheart,” his voice was a mixture of restraint and warning, “don’t start callin’ me that unless y’er tryna see it through.” His neck was visibly tense, and his hands clutched on to the meat of your hips as he stared at you.
Pretty girl.
He squeezed tighter.
His pretty girl.
A moment of silence passed as you considered his words. “And what if I do wanna see it through…?” Your head tilted cutely while your mean hands found their way to his happy trail, running your nails down through the thick tufts of dark hair, dipping juuust below the waistband of his pants, before retreating back up again in slow, agonizing loops. “Show me your worst, daddy.”
And who was he to deny you?
Before you knew it, he had his pants and briefs shoved down his legs, his massive cock heavily thudding against his washboard abs
Your mouth gaped open.
And ohhh how he relished the dumb look on your lil’ cute face.
You didn’t even think anyone could be this large.
Yet here he was, with a dick that looked like it belonged in a porno, pulsing fat and heavy and huge as he leaked pre-cum all over the angry mushroomed head.
He smirked, cocky as ever, as you subconsciously licked your lips, eyes glazed over, cock drunk just off the look alone.
Your pussy gushed warm, new slick between your legs as you carefully leant down, your hands grabbing around his base, slowly bringing his dick closer to your face.
He could feel the warm puffs of air coming from ur plush lips, his dick twitching like crazy at how close you were to finally, finally getting your mouth on him.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his leaking slit, before running your lips over the excess pre-cum, painting your lips with the milky substance.
He swallowed hard. His eyes were wild and his breathing ragged.
He groped your tits, rolling your stiff nipples in his calloused fingers, eliciting the sweetest moan from you that reverberated around his dick.
You gave him small kitten licks at first, teasing the idea, before gradually licking thick fat stripes up and down the length of his huge dick. You traced the pulsing veins that climbed up his hot shaft and licked around the sensitive underside of his throbbing cockhead.
And it was only when his chest was heaving, his impatient hands gripping onto your skull, did you finally, finally begin to throat fuck the shit outta him.
None of the videos he had watched of you before even came close to the sensation of seeing the bulge forming in your throat from where his cock was buried inside of you, or the way your nose tickled against the tufts of dark hair at the base of his cock.
You moaned dreamily around him at the feeling of his heavy dick pounding against the back of your throat, filling your mouth and overwhelming your senses. You couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes as you bobbed him in your mouth, hands jerking off what you couldn’t reach, and your thighs rubbing together greedily, craving any ounce of friction against your throbbing pussy.
But before you knew it, he was lifting you off, a light string of saliva following en suit, connecting the two of you together.
“What’s wrong?” You had a devilish grin on your pretty face. “Scared you're gonna cum too quick?”
A low, humorless chuckle rumbled through his body as one of his hands wrapped around your throat, while the other smacked your ass.
“Nah,” his canines glinted in the lowlight, a predatorial grin etching into his features. “Just tryna make sure nothin’ gets wasted.” And then he's shifting you up, rubbing his thick cock against your gooey cunt, mixing his thick pre with your juices.
Your heart fluttered.
His dick was so warm against your skin – so, so much better (and bigger) than the toys you regularly used to get yourself off.
You’ve had enough. You’ve done your waiting. You needed him inside you.
You lifted yourself up, your hands bracing themselves on either side of Toji’s broad shoulders. Your pussy was dripping down onto his angry dick as you slowly lowered yourself, hips circling, letting his throbbing head trace your sopping lips.
He could have almost passed out from the sight alone.
Instead, he panted out a deep breath, his chest tightening as he tried to restrain himself from bucking up into your cunt.
You paused your hips, lowering yourself again ever so slightly so that his leaking head was now smooching against your gummy entrance, the heat of his cock stirring something warm and familiar in your belly.
Please, please, please, ple–
And then your pussy is swallowing his head whole.
“Oh, fuuuck you’re tight mama,” his eyes squeezed shut, fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead as Toji gasped out at the sensation of his thiiick cockhead squeezing past the tight ring of muscles at your entrance.
Your gummy walls sucked against him from all angles, squishing into his hardness and rubbing deliciously against the sensitive underside of his mushroomed tip.
And this was just the tip.
He didn’t know if he would make it out of here alive. At least, without getting you pregnant.
You whimpered, actually fuckin’ whimpered his name as you reached down, touching where he was spearing you apart, your lips drawn thin and tight to accommodate for the sheer size of him.
“You’re so big Toji,” a tear rolled down your flushed cheek. “Look at how much more I gotta take.” And he did, he really did look. Because you began to let your finger slowly slide from where the two of you were connected, down, down, down to the tufts of hair at the base of his cock.
“Haah- Ya’ think it’ll fit, sweetheart?” He grunted, his lips involuntarily bucking as you pouted cutely at him.
Something impassable flashed across your feature. “I’ll make it fuckin’ fit.”
And then you’re slamming down onto his dick, and it feels like the literal wind gets knocked out of both of your chests.
He has never felt something so deliciously tight before.
You have never felt so goddamn filled up before.
You’re clenching around him, velvet walls fluttering and smooching around his raw cock as it pulses heavy and thick with animalistic need.
It took you several moments to orient yourself, to gather your scrambled senses back together to remember what you were doing, what your goal was, why you were here.
“I have a secret to tell you.” You stared down at him, an unreadable look passing over your features.
“O-oh really?” you squeezed your walls around him, catching him off guard.
“I know you watch me touch myself,” you whispered it like it was a secret, sly and just a touch proud.
And of all the things you could’ve said, nothing would have prepared him for that.
His dick bobbed from inside of you.
“Fushi-daddy420 isn’t the most subtlest of names, no?” you grinned meanly as you watched his jade eyes turn impossibly black as you began to slowly, teasingly, mercifully bounce on his cock. Up and down and up and down.
“But-?”
He thought you would hate him if you knew.
He agonized for days for this reaction?!!
“And after you ran out on me after seeing my place?” you were panting, riding him as you talked. “Yea, that kinda solidified it.”
And just when he thinks you’ve found your rhythm and set your pace, you slowly begin to circle your hips, hitting new angles deep inside your guts that have his throbbing tip pressing into the spongy part of your pussy.
“You don’t -fuhh- don’t hate me?” his mind was swirling, how could he focus when you felt this good?
“Never.” Your hips rolled, and you pressed your tits together, giving him a show.
And you were doing so well, and felt so good. He pressed a fat thumb against your clit, spelling out his name, as if to claim you, mark you, over and over and over again.
T-O-J-I !
He throws his head back as he feels you creaming around his cock, while your eyes are rolling into the backs of your head as you feel his thick goopy pre frothing at your entrance, dripping down onto his balls. The pace is getting faster, the air getting hot, and thick beads of sweat are rolling down your back. The obscene sounds of sweaty skin slapping against skin filled the hot, sex-scented air.
You lean down to kiss him, tongues messily entangling, drool spilling from the sides of your lips as you ride his cock like a fuckin’ animal, ass jiggling from the force of his hips rocking up to meet you, his heavy balls smacking against your pussy like a promise.
In one swift motion, he’s flipping the two of you over, your back to the bed, his dick never leaving your pussy, as he continues to fuck into you. He has your legs spread wide, your knees to his sides as he buries himself deep within your warmth, the new angle allowing you to feel his fat tip smooching against your cervix.
He’s panting, breath shaky as he slows down, rutting shallowly, not allowing himself to be too far from your gummy insides. “T-tell me where you want it,” his voice came out strained, and you could see where his veins were protruding on his neck.
Oh. His cum.
His balls were pressed against you, tightening with every passing second. You could feel his dick bobbing against your walls as he was direly trying to stop himself from cumming.
You smiled, soft and sweet, as you pressed a hand against your lower tummy, feeling the bulge of where he was nestled inside you.
“Oh, you already know,” and you were batting your pretty lashes up at him, making his heart stutter. “Isn’t that right, daddy?”
And oh, how his broken mind snapped.
The next thing you knew, he’s pressing your knees so far up they’re knocking against your tits, his hulking body leaning over and pressing down into you, chest against chest, until you could feel his warm lips sucking bruises by your ear.
And then he’s draaagging his thick cock through your pussy until only the tip is inside you, before snapping his hips forward, forcing his cock the deepest it could go back inside you, spearing you apart, and setting an absolutely cruel, delicious, depraved pace that has his balls bruising your ass and his cock breeching your womb.
It goes for what feels like seconds, minutes, hours.
Your legs began to shake at all the sensations, your pussy walls convulsing around him and your ears ringing as you started to see white.
And he truly couldn’t keep it in any longer.
Not when you sounded so hot, with your face scrunched up in the prettiest ‘o’ and your nails digging crescents into his back as you called his name, begging for his seed.
And so he bucked up, his hips flush against yours, locking you into the meanest of mating presses, as his dick lurched, balls scrunching, as he pumped copious amounts of his thick, sticky cum straight into your womb.
And he’s still bucking his hips, through each of your peaks, fucking his cum deep inside you, until your belly was bloated and full of him.
“Thattaa girl,” he pressed a warm kiss to your mouth as he fucked you through the last few peaks of your orgasms, gingerly swiping his thumb across your cheek as if you were something precious. “My girl.”
And later on, as you softly drifted to sleep, with a belly full of his cum and his softening dick still inside you, you could feel his scarred lips pressing light kisses across your face, and the mumblings of something that sounded vaguely too close to “iloveyou” whispered into your warm skin.
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Five weeks passed, and the Michigan Wolverines were in the midst of the NCAA College Football Championships.
After weeks of non-stop practice, conditioning, strength training, and late-night film recaps, the team of 100-odd men were finally going up against their biggest competitor in the nation.
There was much on the line, but thankfully, Senior Quarterback and Captain, Toji Fushiguro, had quite the good luck charm on his side.
Not only did he pass Kinetics (albeit by the skin of his teeth, thanks to you), but he now had a new, fool-proof pre-game regimen (with an even better success rate!).
He still kept his same protein shake recipe.
He still kept his same choice of attire.
But this time around, he needed at least one hour of your undivided attention, with the provision that his cock be buried so deep and raw inside your trembling cunt that you could feel him in your womb.
And it was only after intense, depraved, animalistic fucking, with your pussy stuffed full of his gooey cum, and hickies in the shape of a ‘T’ on your neck, could the 6’4 230 lbs man say with absolute certainty, that this championship was in the god damn bag.
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The Wolverines won their final round of the playoffs in a sweeping victory: 52-38.
And the star quarterback of the show could not wait to celebrate with you, his pretty lil’ girlfriend.
summary: you’re left alone with your best friend’s quiet, mysterious roommate. What could possibly go wrong?
content: MDNI 18+, fem!reader, tattoo artist!choso, alt!choso, pierced!choso, stóner!choso, plug(?)!choso, hair-down choso, no use of “y/n”, pórn no plot, maybe some plot, high séx, elements of dubcon, oral (f!receiving), sqúírting, dumbification, piv, size k!nk, CHOSO IS LOWK POSSESSIVEE, dare i say yandere?, brééding, etc.
word count: 5.1k
author's note: picture credits from left to right: einruji07 on X, b___ashui on X, einruji07 on X | divider credits go to @strangergraphics | this was inspired by an anon rec from a couple months ago! i tweaked it a little bit, so plz forgive me (ó﹏ò｡) 🩶 also, MDNI 18+ if you are not 18+ i will block you.
choso's aux: dreams, fairytales, fantasies - a$ap ferg, sativa - jhene aiko, girl with the tattoo enter.lewd - miguel, nights like this - the kid laroi, swim - chase atlantic, right here - chase atlantic , chokehold - sleep token
“Where the fuck is he?” You mumbled anxiously underneath your breath.
You had been waiting inside Curseblood Studio for almost twenty minutes at this point, your phone long since dead by your side, thighs stuck to the plush leather of the parlor couch, and the thin heel of your boot tapping restlessly against the worn flooring.
The interior of the place was dim, and the reception area was entirely empty. It was 19:00, and you knew it was near closing hours (if not already).
Behind you, the soft pat, pat, pat of the summer rain tapped against the shop’s windows - a gentle melody accompanied by the faint humming of a tattoo gun somewhere deep within the shop, steady and distant, like a pulsing heartbeat thrumming in anticipation.
You were supposed to meet Suguru over an hour ago to catch the train into Chuo together. It was by order of Satoru, as the white-haired menace had practically begged the entire friend group to go clubbing with him tonight. But when Suguru never showed up at the station, you found yourself heading to the one place he was most likely to be: the tattoo shop where he worked.
Which, conveniently, just so happened to be situated right underneath the apartment that he shared with–
“You good?”
The voice was deep, soft, familiar.
You lifted your head, only for your eyes to land on… him.
Kamo. Choso.
The tall, tired-looking man had silently situated himself behind the counter without you realizing earlier. His dark hair, which normally was tied up, fell loosely around his neck, showing off his shaggy wolfcut. The dark inked slash that ran across the bridge of his nose contrasted well with the silver shark bites that adorned his pink lips, and his usual loungewear was replaced with ripped cargos and a black muscle tee, exposing his muscular arms and the gorgeous, dark red ink that wrapped around his pale skin in dizzying patterns.
His dark eyes met yours for just the smallest of moments, before quickly flicking away.
“Hi,” you murmured. You suddenly grew shy, feeling embarrassed for imposing well past his business hours. “Yes. I’m… good.”
He offered you a small nod in response.
The two of you knew each other only in passing. He was part of Suguru’s other friend group, and just so happened to be both his roommate and the other co-owner of the studio.
A reserved tattoo artist during the day.
An introspective stoner during the night.
During the numerous times you found yourself in your best friend’s apartment, you had only observed Kamo Choso from a safe distance: the hard planes of his bare back as he disappeared through the kitchen, the faint scent of old weed lingering from his room, and the sharp line of his jaw caught in brief, accidental glances.
It was only during the rare moments when the two of you awkwardly crossed paths, whether in the cramped hallway or the messy foyer, that conversation ever seemed possible. Yet even then, it rarely made it past a simple “hello”.
Which is why you found him so hard to read.
You truly couldn’t tell if the man genuinely disliked you, found you entirely unremarkable, or if he was simply the kind of person who kept everyone at arm's length.
Regardless, this was the first time ever where the two of you were addressing each other directly, without the chaperoning assistance of Suguru.
The quiet man rested his inked arms on the countertop that separated the two of you, silently letting his dark eyes wander over your body, taking you in.
Your hair framed your face softly, and every time you shifted, he could see the faint glint of the earrings that dangled beneath. The dress you wore tonight was short with a modest neckline, and the sheer black tights that adorned your legs accentuated the curve of your thighs.
Choso blinked, before wordlessly staring down at his hands, which had, at some point, unconsciously began to grip onto the countertop below him.
“I apologize for imposing on you.” Your words came out small as you looked up at him from where you sat, your nails tapping nervously against the frayed leather of the couch.
He shook his head almost immediately. “You’re not.” His voice came out a touch too deep, too serious, too rushed. He coughed lightly, willing his eyes to look at the clock on the wall rather than the mole by your lips. “Shop’s about to close though. You waitin’ on someone, or d’ya get bored and want some ink?”
You couldn’t help but release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, an endearing chuckle escaping from your prettily glossed lips at his dry words.
Cute.
“Hmm…” you smiled, playfulness laced in your voice, “unfortunately, just waiting today...”
He didn’t even have to ask. He already knew for whom.
Suguru.
Choso tsked, cursing the other man underneath his breath for keeping you, the most attractive person that’s ever stepped foot inside the building, waiting. You watched him with doe-like eyes as he scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in deep thought, and his inked biceps flexing subtly under the lowlight.
A moment passed before the man in front of you spoke again.
“Well then. Wanna do some waitin’ upstairs?”
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The thick smoke from a dying roach curled languidly in the heady air between you both.
It had been roughly thirty minutes since Kamo Choso had invited you into his apartment, taken your phone to his room to charge, and returned with the disappointing news that Geto-Fucking-Suguru hadn’t left you a single notification.
It had also been roughly twenty minutes since he’d offered you his weed.
Which is how you both found yourself here, sitting on a large couch in his shared living room, Human Earthworm 4 playing in the background, Choso’s zip-locked stash laying haphazardly on the coffee table in front of you, and his extended leg mere centimeters away from your thigh.
He didn’t expect you to be able to keep up with him, let alone agree to his offer in the first place.
Smoking with company felt a whole lot nicer than smoking alone.
Though, he didn’t know if that was because it was with you.
He took a sip of his Asahi, before chancing a glance up at you.
The whites of your eyes were glazed a pretty pink, and you were already staring at him with hooded lids, your glossed lip caught between your teeth as if you were deep in thought.
He looked away abruptly, startled by the force of his own heart squeezing at the sight of you.
“You don’t like me very much.”
Your head felt heavy as it lolled to the side, lashes fluttering lazily with each slow blink. The observation left your lips with surprising ease, delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone one might use to comment on the weather or the color of the sky.
He raised a pierced brow, his eyes impassive and his jaw drawn tight.
“Pardon?”
You smiled at him as if you were amused, before reaching out to grab the perspiring can from him, your soft fingers grazing his inked ones.
How bold.
If you were any more sober, maybe you would have refrained. Given him his space. Maintained the formal distance that had always existed between you. You frowned at the thought.
You took a sip of his beer, a hearty sigh escaping your mouth as the cool liquid gave you some reprieve from the heat that permeated the room.
An unreadable look crossed his face as his eyes locked in on where the gloss on your lips left a faint mark where his mouth had been just moments before.
“You heard me, Kamo Choso.”
You regarded him for a moment, dark eyes probing him as if a dare.
And, despite his proclivity for solitude and his enjoyment of peace, at the end of the day, Kamo Choso was simply a man.
Game. On.
He wordlessly fished out another pre-rolled joint from his stash, settling it between his pierced lips before sparking his lighter.
A moment passed.
The movie played on in the background.
Outside, the distant horns of late-night Osaka traffic drifted up to the third-floor apartment.
He exhaled through his nose, letting the smoke unfurl between you, filling the space, before slowly turning his head to face you, his expression unreadable.
“Address me casually.” He spoke coolly, his voice deep and just a touch scratchy.
And it took a moment for your hazy brain to register the fact that he was not asking.
He tapped the joint against the ashpan on the table, before taking another drag.
You swallowed, heat beginning to pool in your belly as your legs clenched subtly at his words.
It was almost a tease, watching his strong jaw work as he smoked in front of you, and seeing the glimpses of hard muscle rippling underneath his cut shirt.
How gorgeous he was.
How breathtakingly intimidating.
And before you could even have time to register your thoughts, he’s shifting closer to you, his hand mere millimeters away from your leg.
“Open.” His voice was low and careful.
You quietly obeyed.
And his eyes were focused solely on your pretty mouth, on the way your lips softly wrapped around the paper of the joint as he placed it gently between them.
His large fingers brushed against your bottom lip, the metal of his rings cooling the heat on your skin, before tenderly grazing your jaw.
You quickly took a few puffs, trying to conceal your reddening face behind the smoke.
You removed the joint from your lips, letting it rest on the edge of the ashpan as you stole his beer again, doing anything you could to try and calm yourself down.
The corners of his mouth curled into a knowing grin.
“-And for the record,” he leaned in, his hand moving to rest against your knee, the warmth of his skin searing straight through the thin fabric of your tights. “I don’t share my weed with people I don’t like.”
And his face was so close to yours that you could see the flecks of gold in his glazed eyes, the smooth lines of his tattoo that ran across his nose, the reflection of the TV light within his brow piercings, and the way his tattoos crawled up his forearms and curled around his neck.
Your head began to spin.
The steady warmth in your belly began to manifest an embarrassing amount of slickness between your thighs.
There was no denying it.
He was attractive. So damn captivating.
So really, you couldn’t help it when the following words tumbled out of your sweet, sweet mouth:
“I think I’m gonna need more proof than that, Cho-so-kun~”
And despite your light, breathless voice and wavering grin, Kamo Choso was oh, so serious as he pulled you into his lap, muscular arms working to situate yourself on top of him as your dress rode up higher along your thighs.
Your hands instinctively reached out to prop against his hard chest, and the shock on your face had your mouth forming the cutest little ‘o’ for him.
His chest was firm underneath the fabric of his shirt, and he smelt faintly of smoke and peppermint.
The longer you sat on his lap, the more your breaths intertwined, his air becoming your own, and yours becoming his.
You couldn’t help it as your hand drifted up the broad plane of his chest, your fingertips skimming over the fabric of his shirt before running over the slope of his tattooed neck. Your touch lingered along his jaw, thumb brushing gently against the cool metal of his shark bites
So soft, so intimate.
He brought one of his hands to cup your own, keeping your palm pressed to his jaw, and your thumb resting against his lips.
“Deal.”
And then he’s turning his head to press his lips against your palm, mumbling something against your soft skin, before moving both of his large hands doowwnn your body, finding steady purchase on your hips, fingers spanning across your ass as he’s shifting you impossibly closer to him, until your warm cunt was pressed against his painfully large erection.
Your chest was now squished against his, your noses knocking, and your long lashes fluttering against his skin.
He could feel the stiffness of your nipples as it pressed into him, and he could smell the jasmine of your perfume that began to mix with the light perspiration on your neck.
His lips were hovering yours, his breath shaky as he stared down at you.
“Choso…” you all but whimpered to him.
And oh, how he loved hearing his name in your mouth. His dick lurched in his pants.
Which is why he’s sticking his pierced tongue out, running it softly along your bottom lip, before languidly curling it up, letting it slip between the seam of your parted mouth as he finally, finally kisses you, sucking you in, savoring the sweetness of your saliva and the softness of your tongue.
And you sighed, so prettily and dreamily as your eyes fluttered closed.
You could feel the heaviness of his erection now as it pressed against your clothed cunt, the tights you were wearing doing absolutely nothing to hide the pathetic dampness that already began to soak through.
His large hands began to roam, rubbing circles into your hips before running down to your thighs, slipping his calloused fingers underneath the seam of your little black dress. And then pushing up, up, up along your legs until the skirtpiece is thoroughly bunched around your waist.
And your mind was spinning, the head high from his weed making all of your senses feel so heightened.
His hands felt rough and dominating. His tongue tasted like syrup and felt like sin. The cool metal of his piercings sent electrifying jolts straight through your overheated nerves and all the way down to your throbbing pussy.
There was just something so addictive about him, the way he moved, the way he controlled the pace – something so captivating that all you could do was follow, willing your body into submission, making you want to obey.
He released your bruised lips with a small haah~
You blinked up at him, your pretty eyes dazed and cutely confused as to why he was stopping now.
His heart squeezed tightly in his chest.
With one hand on your waist, he’s gently reaching around you, carefully picking up the joint that was still burning away on the ashtray, and then placing it between his lips.
He inhaled slowly, methodically, letting his eyes lock with yours again, his gaze glassy and heavy-lidded.
Such a pretty little thing, you were.
And oh, how he wanted to keep you.
Mark you and bite you and claim you for himself.
Choso reached out, his large, ringed fingers lightly wrapping around your neck as he pulled you closer, pressing his mouth against yours again as he let the smoke lazily unfurl inside of you.
And the smile on his face was nothing short of sleazy as he felt another gush of slick escape through the now translucent material of your tights.
“Mhhhn. Easyy there,” he all but drawled into your ear, his hand still firm against your throat.
You couldn’t help but squeeze your eyes shut, your core twisting with embarrassment, shame and… arousal?
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, before resting the joint between your lips as he uses his other hand to lift the material of your tights higher, drawing the fabric taught to enunciate the folds and dips of your pussylips underneath.
He sucked a heavy breath in, his dick twitching at the sight of the soaked fabric, your quivering lips, and the impressively large dark spot that you were making on his pants just from kissing alone.
He was such a fucking goner.
“‘M not even close to done with ya yet,” he breathed, his chest starting to rise and fall almost erratically. “Not even close to provin’ to you…” his glassy eyes were slowly growing wild as his brain seemed to register something.
“Proof… You wanted proof, babygirl?” His low voice came out rough and partly delirious. He didn’t even give you a chance to speak before he’s using his large hand to cup your sex, the heat of his palm against you making you clench in anticipation.
You could feel your heartbeat throbbing in your pussy, pounding to a beat almost similar to his name.
Cho-so. Cho-so. Cho-so.
“I’ll show ya’ proof-”
And then he’s riiiipping the flimsy fabric of your tights apart, until your bare cunt lay fully on display before him.
“-And you’re gonna take it. ”
You didn’t even have a chance to respond before he’s pushing you down, down, down until your upper body rested against the cushions of his couch.
He leaned forward, holding the dying joint to your lips, letting you take another hit before he finished it off, taking one long drag before crushing the roach into the ashtray.
You try to keep the smoke inside of you for as long as you can, letting it settle in your lungs and course through your blood.
And it seemed like he was of a similar mindset as you.
Except, instead of exhaling into the already hazy air of his living room, he’s leaning down, until his flushed face is nestled between your damp thighs, his tattooed nose pressed firmly against your exposed clit, and his soft mouth latching onto your drenched pussylips as he blows the smoke inside you for yet the second time that night.
Your eyes squeezed shut, kiss-bitten lips tugged between your teeth, and cheeks flushed a sensual shade of rouge.
Everything was just so incredibly warm.
“Choso–!”
“Haah– this what ya’ wanted all along right? You just wanted me.” He’s lapping you up, licking fat, messy stripes against your folds, talking against your pussy almost breathlessly. “Say it. Say that you just want me. That you just need me.”
And your jaw is hinging, mouth parting, the words forming at the tip of your tongue–
Squeellchhh~
“Yess! Good girl! Such a good fuckin’ girl.”
It’s only then that you realize he was never even talking to you to begin with - in fact, he wasn’t just talking against your pussy, but to it.
You moaned, your chest heaving, your skin buzzing with every touch of his fingers and every lick by his tongue. You squirmed as he draagged his piercing through your folds, the smooth metal tracing a cool path on your blazing skin.
You could hear the sound of your blood pounding loud in your ears now, your heartbeat wild in your chest. Everything felt like too much, and not enough, all at the same time.
“M-more, Cho. Need more.” You panted out, your glassy eyes staring back up at him pleadingly.
“That so?” He grunted, the words reverberating throughout your cunt as he spoke between your lips.
You nodded, a tear slipping from your eye as the heat in your belly grew.
“Then get louder.”
And there was absolutely nothing that could’ve prepared you for when he pressed his pierced tongue against your clit, letting the metal ball press firm as he plunged his thick, ringed fingers inside of you, fucking into your tightness, pumping in and out and in and out, hitting and pressing and massaging that sensitive lil’ bundle of nerves deep within your velvety pussy. And you’re gasping shamelessly, your breah hitching and your back arching and your voice breaking as he’s fucking his fingers impossibly deeper, crooking them up until you saw stars.
You could feel yourself beginning to cream around him, your juices messily splattering across his maw.
And the way he was staring up at you had your tummy twisting in on itself, the unyielding heat pooling in your pussy growing hotter and hotter.
He stared at you through glassy eyes and heavy lids, his cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink, sweat running down his temples, and his warm tongue swirling his name onto your clit in agonizing lil’ loops.
Cho-so, Cho-so, Cho-so~
It was divine. It was hot. It was messy and wet and so fucking good.
You began to chant his name like it was the only one you knew, like you forgot your own entirely, like you didn’t even fucking care – because all that did matter was the wet sounds of his mouth sucking your clit and the squelching of your pussy as it echoed throughout the heavily smoke-filled room.
And you were doing so well, crying his name on both your lips, that he didn’t ever want to stop.
So, it nearly broke him when he had to release your clit with a little paah~
He leaned back, one of his hands still fucking his fingers inside of you as the other worked on unbuttoning his pants. His rhythm faltered for only a fraction of a second as he tugged aside his briefs, releasing his cock with a heavy thump! against his hard abdomen.
And…
Holy shit.
Your wide eyes ogled at him as your mind fully fucking short-circuited.
He was large.
He was pierced.
And he was inked.
You let in a small gasp, your glassy eyes trying to take it all in: the tattoos that wrapped around his base, the sheer fatness of his girth, the angry veins that climbed up his cock, and the glinting metal on the underside of his shaft.
Another warm gob of slick slipped languidly past your lips, making a trail through your soaked folds before finding home on the damp couch cushions below.
And a burst of pride swelled in Kamo Choso’s chest at the way you were looking at him, at the way your pretty pussy was crying to him: so cute, so pathetic, so needy.
He swatted his hand against your swollen cunt, relishing in the little aah~ that escaped your kiss-bitten lips.
“You’ve been doin’ so well, babygirl,” he breathed.
And you were so dazed, so stoned and blissed out that all you could do was whimper in response.
Slowly, he pulled his ringed fingers out of you, his hand and wrist soaked fully in your release. He hummed, a proud smile pulling across his features as he languidly wiped your juices over his already leaking cock, before slowly, teasingly jerking himself off.
It was transfixing, to say the least – watching as he gripped himself at the base, his heavy dick bobbing as he pumped himself, pushing thick pearls of pre-cum up, up, up through his slit.
His breath stuttered as you reached out, curiously tracing your fingers along the underside of his shaft, pausing his ministrations.
“I thought…” you began, your eyes locked onto where the veins on his dick pulsed in anticipation. “I thought you still had somethin’ to prove to me?” And your eyes were wide and doe-like as you menacingly spread his gooey pre all over his throbbing tip.
“Oh I do, don’t I,” he drawled, leaning over your body, caging you in, as his hips dipped down to meet against yours. “How could I even forget.”
And then he’s slipping his cock against your soaked folds, coating himself further in your slick, rolling his hips so that you could feel him, all of him, from base to tip.
You mewled at the sensation of his heavy dick pressed against you, using you, and the metal of his piercing meanly rubbing past your pulsing clit.
“There ya go,” he crooned, his mouth licking hot stripes by your ear. “Jus’ like that now. I like it when you're loud f’me.”
And he keeps his pace, rubbing against you, letting the weight of his leaking tip tease lightly against the tightness of your hole, before retreating, always retreating, slipping and sliding against you in painstaking loops.
You could almost cry.
You could almost scream.
And then you’re clawing at his back, at his hair. Digging crescents into his shoulders. Begging him to go. Begging him to do something. Begging him to fuck you.
And the grin that formed on his face was positively wicked.
“Deal.”
And then he’s presssingg his thick cockhead against your entrance, the cool metal of the piercing rubbing against your warm lips, as you slowly began to swallow his tip whole.
You’re gasping, your hole stretching to accommodate for his girth, for the extra metal that he wore on his skin..
“Holy fu–” his eyes screwed shut, his breath ragged, and his chest rising and falling erratically at the sensation of your warm, gooey walls wrapping around him in an overwhelming kiss, squishing and massaging against the sensitive underside of his tip.
He could’ve nutted right then and there, your wet pussy squeelching as you squeezed around him.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
“Fuck, you’re just a cruel lil’ thing, aren’t ya?”
And you don’t even have time to respond, don’t even have time to think, because he’s forcing himself in, spearing your gummy walls apart, burrowing his dick deep within you until it felt like you could feel the metal of his piercing practically smooching against your cervix.
Your eyes roll back into your head, the air feeling as if it had been knocked from your lungs from the sheer length of him.
“Haah~ knew my baby could do it f’me,” his deep voice cracked, his glassy eyes wild as he gripped firmly onto your hips. He started to buck into you, fucking himself deeper and deeper, until all you could hear was his skin slapping against yours as he molded your pussy to the shape of him, rubbing his cockhead against your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, animalistically.
“Knew you’d be able to take it,” he was grunting now, his words choppy and he veins on his neck popping from the sheer force of his dick pounding against your cunt. “Knew you’d feel this good while I prove to ya how much I fuckin’ like ya.”
Your traitorous heart swelled at his words, your tummy fluttering, pleasure building, and your pussy gripping onto his cock like a lifeline.
His pierced mouth found yours again, his tongue meeting yours in a messy french. Drool started to spill from your lips as his pace quickened, the wet sound of his balls smacking against your soaked cunt filling the hazy air around you. Everything was getting hotter, stickier, clumsier. His hips were beginning to stutter, and his breaths were coming out in short, quick pants.
And his tip just kept pressing exactly into that spot you needed most, the smooth metal of his piercing rubbing your nerves in ways that had your toes curling, skin tingling, and head absolutely reeling.
And you could feel it – your legs trembling, your ears ringing, the absolute peaks of your orgasm rippling and running through your body in overwhelming waves as his fat, leaking cock fucks into your womb.
“Shit–I’m–” his jaw tensed, his muscles flexing as he willed himself not to cum.
His dick was almost halfway outside of your gooey hole when you blinked up at him, teary eyed.
“C-Cho…” you were barely coherent, sputtering and gasping. “More.” And then you’re wrapping your legs around him, locking him in, pressing him flush against you, pushing his cock back inside you, refusing to let him go. “Need more proof,” you whispered.
And oh, of course he had to oblige.
Especially for you.
Especially like this.
“Yes, babygirl” was all he could breath out as he messily fucked you through your orgasm, pumping his cock in and out and in and out of your squelching pussy.
He watched, entranced, as he could see the soft bulge of himself in your tummy from where his dick was buried within you.
It was just all too much, too warm and soft and wet and tight, that his vision turned blurry, his lungs squeezing, and his chest heaving, as his thick, ropey cum forcefully painted your womb white, stuffing you full.
And, despite the absolute mess, he tenderly pressed a kiss to your temple, letting his mouth rest against your skin as he shallowly fucked his seed inside you, riding through the peaks of his own high.
For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, his body warm as you breathed in each other’s air.
“Stay tonight?” His voice was soft, almost uncertain.
Your heart tugged against your ribs.
“Okay.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You snuck out of his bed before he had the chance to wake.
You blamed it on work. On responsibility. On the long list of reasons that made leaving feel like the right thing to do.
It was for the best, you kept repeating to yourself.
The two of you had been stoned last night. Perhaps even a little crossed. Those were all facts.
And this was not your first hook-up. You knew how it always went. You knew that by the time he would wake, you’d see it on his face: the embarrassment, the awkward realization, and the forced post-sex niceties
You knew how it worked – so why risk spoiling a beautiful(ly perverted) memory?
Your heart squeezed, and your stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot.
It was nice, for what it was worth.
Your thoughts were a blur as you hurried back to your apartment, too focused on putting distance between yourself and the warmth you’d left behind. And it wasn’t until you sat down at your desk that you noticed your phone was still dead, its screen dark and lifeless in your hand.
He never charged it.
You sighed, plugging the device into power as you began to ready yourself for the work day ahead.
And it was only after you finished making yourself a cup of coffee and settling down into your chair when your phone finally lit up.
.
.
3 missed messages from “Sugu”
1 missed call from “Sugu”
9 missed messages from “UTAHIME <33”
21 missed messages from “Gojo (Block L8r)”
5 missed calls from “Shokkkkko”
1 missed message from Unknown Number.
Oh?
You pressed into the latest message.
.
.
Unknown (01:07): txt me when u wanna make it permanent. X
Your brow furrowed as you read the text again.
The hell did that even mean?
You glanced up, pondering the message until your eyes briefly caught your own reflection in the mirror across from your desk.
And there, just visible above the collar of your shirt, was a swirl of dark red ink peeking through the fabric.
Your breath hitched quietly.
Slowly, you hooked a finger beneath your collar and pulled it down, revealing tidy, elegant, deliberate strokes.
脹相の
...
"Choso’s"
a/n: apologies if this got poopy this was totally meant to be a lot shorter than i made it. arf.
tag list: @rinreena, @hailsworld00, @crybabymina, @porcelaiinedoll
You two were inseparable even now in your last year of high school. She always called you ‘her other half’, even though you two couldn’t be more different. She was beautiful, tall, and athletic. Despite her popularity, she never strayed from your side. You guys still collected Digimon cards together, sang terrible karaoke in the Maserati she got on her sixteenth birthday, and even had those sleepovers where you’d stay up too late.
She was your most cherished friend.
And then, she disappeared.
You still aren’t sure what happened. Her entire family was so hush about it. All you knew was that one day she was laughing and smiling with you at school. The next, she was gone.
Word travels fast in your small town. Everyone knew the Gojo girl mysteriously vanished. There were so many theories. Everyone made your friend their own little true crime fixation. It made you sick. Some thought she was taken for ransom. Others thought she ran away with a man double her age.
The worst one were rumors of a sacrifice to a demonic entity.
Hearing people speculate of her disappearance and missing her presence all felt so unbearable. Days passed, and your morale grew lower and lower.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure everything’s ok. Stop worrying so much.” Your mother assures you.
“Her family probably went on a trip and she forgot to tell you. You know how careless that girl is.” She laughs.
You do know how careless she is. Toru was smart, but she constantly dropped pens and pencils. She’d forget what her next class was. She’d lose her own head if it weren’t attached to her.
You berate her for it. She only laughs you off.
“I have you to take care of me, don’t I?”
You felt like crying all over again.
Disappearing without telling you wasn’t like Satoru. She’d tell you everything, regardless if you wanted to hear it or not. A sudden family trip without you knowing is unheard of.
Something had happened to her, but no one believed you.
“At the same time she’s so responsible.” Your mother continues to gush. “I still remember how brave she was the day she saved you from that lake. How old were the two of you? Nine? Ten?”
Your mom is starting to say something else, but you want a break from her rambles about Toru. Instead, you grab the full trash can, muttering how you’ll be back, before disappearing out into the night air.
October night blooms above you. It was chilly- enough to make you feel goosebumps. You didn't linger on it. You’d only be out here for a few minutes at most.
You placed the trash can beside the curb. The suburban community you lived in was quiet as always. It was dark. The only light you had was the dim glow of a nearby streetlight.
It takes a while for your eyes to adjust.
And then you notice there’s a person on the other side of the road.
You’re not too alarmed at first. It’s probably just someone taking a walk. This is a safe neighborhood.
But they move so silently. You didn’t notice them until you saw them. They’re so quiet, even as they step off the sidewalk and onto the road, headed straight for you.
You’re too slow to react. You take a step back, then another. You might’ve run after that, but you couldn’t trust yourself. You always had terrible instincts.
There’s a flicker of light. Long, white hair makes you pause.
“…Toru?”
She freezes.
You watch as a slow smile stretches across her face.
“I found you.”
You should’ve noticed it then. You should’ve picked up on how off her smile was. Too wide, too many teeth, like she was mimicking mirth. You should’ve noticed her stature, the way she moved when she walked.
You don’t. You just run to her.
You just care how cold she is as you hug her. She’s always been taller than you, but you manage to envelop her in your hold as tightly as you could.
She doesn’t react. She remains stiff as a corpse.
You pull away. She’s still smiling.
“Where were you?” You exclaimed. “I was so worried! I—I called and texted but you never responded. I even went up to your house and it was completely empty. Did you guys go on vacation or something…” Your voice trails off as you glance down.
She was barefoot. When you glanced around, you didn’t see her car parked anywhere.
“Toru?” You ask, finally taking a proper look at her. “Did you walk all the way here…barefoot?”
Her eyes, they’re so bright and blue.
Almost glowing.
“I found you,” she says again. It’s the only thing you’ve heard from her tonight.
She's reaching up, brushing her fingers against your neck, your face. Only then do you notice how unkept she looks. Her hair is brittle and messy. Her clothes are faded and worn. You see dirt underneath her nails and neck and clothes, like she crawled out of the Earth herself.
“I found you.” She repeats.
Your name being called snaps you out of your trance.
Your mother stares at you with furrowed brows.
“What are you doing?” She chastises. “Get inside. It’s cold.”
“But–” When you turn back, Toru’s gone.
You’re alone, standing out in the middle of the road. The air is colder now.
“Are you okay?” She wonders when you stumble back inside.
You try to smile but it comes out stiff. The more you thought about it, the less reasonable it seemed. Satoru would not trek miles and miles on foot to your house. She wouldn’t roam the streets caked in dirt.
Maybe mom was right. You were getting so worked up you were starting to lose your mind.
“It’s nothing,” you say. “Nothing.”
~
You liked Shinichi.
He moved to your town a few years ago, back in sophomore year. The crush started when you two were paired as biology partners last year. You think it might be mutual. Sometimes his hand lingers on yours for a little too long when you hand him a pen. You noticed he watches your lips when you’re talking.
For whatever reason, you never told anyone about your crush–not even Toru.
“Did she really?” Shoko cocks her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“She did.” Suguru insists, coiling up her hair in that signature bun. “How could you not believe me? I’m so hurt.”
“‘cause you’re a liar.” Shoko responds.
Suguru laughs. Or maybe she doesn’t. You weren’t paying attention. Despite the girls hanging beside your locker, you were still nose deep into your notes. Your anatomy test was happening next period and you had an awful feeling you were going to fail.
You were barely past the mandible before your notebook was ripped away from you.
“Hey—“ Your voice dies in your throat.
Satoru grins.
“Missed me?” She teases.
You can only watch as the rest of your group crowds around her immediately. Shoko and Suguru ask where she went, eager for answers.
A last minute ski trip.
“Sorry I went AWOL like that.” She shrugs. “There’s bad reception over there.”
They both buy it. Shoko demands pictures. Suguru prods about the mountains and slopes. Satoru eagerly shows the girls the pictures she took along the Swiss Alps.
You can only stare.
She looks like the same Satoru you’ve known for years. Her smile is just as playful. Her eyes are the brilliant blue you’ve come to admire. Her ivory hair is long and pin straight (‘which I could never do anything with’ she always complained). Her hands are unblemished and dirt-free.
You still can’t get that sight out of your mind: her cracked nails caked in mud.
She catches you staring, finally drawing her attention back on you.
“What?” She prods.
“You never texted me about that.” You blurt out.
She rolls her eyes. “Must’ve forgotten. I don’t gotta tell you everything I do. Stop worrying so much.”
She reaches out to pinch your cheek. You wince, wondering if she meant to be this rough.
“Right,” you say when you brush her hands off of you. Only then do you notice how much taller she is.
Satoru has always towered over you, but she’s never worn lace-up stilettos. Not ever.
You trail over her outfit. Her dress is short and tight, trailing right past her hips and barely covering her ass. The sheer stockings do little to cover the fat of her thighs. Her jacket is unzipped, leaving you to see the amount of cleavage she proudly showed. How she didn’t get dress-coded already was beyond you.
She never dressed like this before. Sure, Satoru had amazing outfits, but she was never this daring. She preferred more conservative clothes: longer skirts, shirts with higher scoops, hoodies that hid her shape.
You can smell her perfume. It’s different. Bolder, compared to the light floral stuff she used to wear. It’s smokier. You feel like you’re standing next to a blooming fireplace.
Shoko and Suguru have hoarded Satoru’s phone, chattering over her trip. You hear the slam of locker doors all around you as the bell rings for the first period. You have a test soon, but you can hardly bring yourself to look away from how different she looks.
Uncanny might be a better word.
You think about the Satoru you saw last night, the one with empty eyes and cracked nails. You want to reach out and ask her, but she’s already slipping away to class.
“Fuck, I gotta’ go.” She sighs. “See ya at lunch. Don’t stress too hard about that anatomy test.” She tells you. “You’ll get wrinkles.”
You manage a weak smile at her joke. When she blows you a kiss, you half-heartedly wave back.
You were freaking out over nothing. The Satoru you saw last night was part of some stress-induced hallucination. And today, Satoru is trying out a new look. She doesn’t have to tell you everything she does. You needed to stop being so paranoid.
School drags on hour by hour. Lunch is just like before. By the time the last bell rings, you’ve almost forgotten all about it.
Usually, Satoru drives you home. She’d sit by the curb, honking if you don’t get in fast enough. She was dramatic like that, but you liked that side of her. The fun side.
Today, there’s no black Maserati waiting for you. You glance around the parking lot, wondering if maybe Satoru’s running late.
You spot ivory white hair blow in the wind.
You watch as she continues to hold Shinichi’s hand, dragging him along. She glances back to say something to him. You can see him throw his head up and laugh.
Something boils on your face. You can’t look away as Shinichi gets into the passenger seat of the car. Satoru follows right after. Tinted windows conceal their faces.
Just for a moment, you swore she turned back to see if you were watching.
~
You had that dream again.
You were at the bottom of a lake, watching the bubbles rise up to the surface. A soaked letter floats next to you. Tiny hands reached in to pull you out–
You wake up in a pool of sweat. Your breaths are heavy. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out again.
The ceiling fan gently whirs above you. It felt nice on your heated skin. You kick the thick blankets off, letting your bare skin cool down.
After a few minutes, it becomes apparent you won’t get any sleep tonight. You rise from your bed, cringing at the stickiness of your skin. It was like you woke up from a nightmare.
Well, it was more like reliving the memory of a near-death experience.
You stretch, pushing your arms up and out. Your bones crack at the release of pressure. Still sitting on your bed, you reach over for your phone. It’s nearly four. You’d have to get ready for school in three hours. There was no point in going back to sleep.
Maybe it was because you were still-half asleep, and now your brain-fog is gone. Maybe the fan was obscuring it, spinning noisily above you.
But you swear you could hear breathing.
Loud. Deep. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out again.
For a moment you thought it was your own, maybe you hadn’t calmed down all the way. But you could still hear your breaths. Quieter–slower than whatever this was.
Vents, you tell yourself. The A.C was acting up. You try to ignore the chills that run up and down your back. Goosebumps rose along your arms and shoulders. The air felt colder.
With your tank top and your shorts, you felt so naked. Almost like you were being watched. The only thing rivaling the sounds you keep hearing is your loud heartbeat. Blood rushes through your ears.
There’s a hint of a footstep. On the other side of your bed, there’s a creak.
You lean over to flick on the lamp.
Light engulfs the shadows. You can see your four walls. The ceiling. The fan. The trinkets you gathered for years sitting nicely on your shelves.
You’re alone.
You wait again, listening. There’s no breathing. Of course you didn’t hear anything. You must have imagined it. You were still so strung up from your nightmare.
You fully roll out of bed, deciding to get ready for school a little early. Maybe you can get a little homework done too before class starts.
It’s another remnant of your night terror. You ignore it as you trek into the bathroom.
For a moment, you thought you could smell a bonfire
~
“Did you two fight?” Suguru suddenly asks.
You barely glance up at her from your phone.
“What?”
“You and Satoru,” she presses. “You two fight?”
“And who won?” Shoko chimes in.
You roll your eyes. “We didn’t fight.”
“Then why is she ignoring you?” Shoko prods. When your gaze lingers on your phone for too long, she plucks it out of your grasp.
You glance over to the other side of the cafeteria. Satoru was crowded around the other girls in the color guard. They seemed to be having a lively conversation. You glanced back at Suguru and Shoko, who were coming up with their own analysis.
“She’s usually so obsessed with you too.” Shoko thinks out loud. “Pretty sure this is the only conversation I’ve had with you where she hasn’t butt in.”
You stare at her, unimpressed.
“What are you talking about?”
They exchange glances.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed it, right?” Suguru asks. When you continue to give a blank stare, she sighs.
“She’s constantly walking you to and from class. You’re one of the only people allowed in her car. Ninety percent of her conversations revolve around you too. She shares food with you, even when she’s so possessive over her snacks.”
“Not to mention you’re the only one who’s allowed to call her ‘Toru.” Shoko gives.
“It’s a childhood nickname.” You mutter.
“Oh! Maybe it’s from the time she saved you from that lake.” Shoko wonders out loud. “After that day, her brain forced her to think of you as some helpless animal who needs to be protected all the time.”
“Oh, like conditioning?” Suguru prods.
“Yeah, exactly.”
Maybe if you ignore them and their stupid theories, they’ll finally leave you alone.
Suguru leans over your shoulder, pressing herself into your space until you can’t ignore her anymore. She grins when your scowl grows deeper. She’s so much like Satoru it actually enrages you. Maybe that’s why they were such good friends.
“So, did you two fight?” She urges.
“No.” You stress. “We didn’t.”
You would have to talk to fight.
Since the day she got back, you hadn’t spoken to Satoru. You never called or texted, you barely even looked at her. She did the exact same. It was like you two were never even friends in the first place. Acquaintances. Strangers that shared the same space.
You’d be lying if a part of you wasn’t mad at her. She left for days with no texts or calls. You were worried sick about her and yet she comes back perfectly fine. It was like she didn’t even care about your feelings or worries. How could she do that to you? It was so shitty.
You still think about her and Shinichi getting into her car and driving off. You don’t think you were too mad about the Shinichi part. You liked him, but it was barely a crush. Him seeing someone would be like someone stealing the last piece of pie before you could. Disappointing, but easily forgettable.
It was the fact that she almost seemed to know how you felt about him that irked you. The way you were sure she glanced back at you to see if you were watching before they drove off.
It felt…mean. Unwarranted.
Still, that wasn’t the biggest issue you had with her.
“Doesn’t she feel a little strange to you?”
Both girls look at you. It’s the same look a parent would give to a child when they’re rambling about Santa Claus. You feel yourself heat up.
“What do you mean?” Shoko asks.
What could you say? What would you look like if you started bitching about how strange her new wardrobe looked? Who cared if you pointed out her new heels? The smell of smoky fire never left you.
You knew Satoru. She constantly moved from one thing onto the next. When has she ever stuck to something? Why was this so different?
You give a helpless shrug. “She’s just…” You trailed off. “Strange.”
Shoko leans in closer.
“Do you think she’s pregnant?”
You gape at her. “What? No!” You squeeze your eyes shut. Forget it, you were just seeing things again. “Never mind.”
Suguru laughs. She leans the rest of her weight on you.
“You’re so paranoid. It’s actually a little cute.”
You’re about to respond, but something prickles over your skin, ever so slightly digging in.
That oppressive weight remains all throughout the rest of the day. You don’t understand it until the school administration hastily calls for a last minute-assembly.
It was just before the end of 8th period. You weren’t too upset, preferring to sit in the gym bleachers than physics. The entire student body shifted and murmured all around you. The principal stands in the center. He transfers his weight from one foot to another. His expression matches the one you saw on teachers and a few of the students too. Those people are a lot quieter today.
The microphone squeals in his grasp. He clears his throat.
Inu Shinichi, a senior in high-school.
Dead at the young age of 18.
Immediately the crowd erupts. People start asking questions all at once. You can hear the confused clamours of students all around you as staff tries to assuage the panic.
The noise, the voices are all too much to keep track of. In the background, you can hear the principal try to continue. It was an unfortunate accident with a wild animal. Police think there might be a bear in the area. Everyone is highly encouraged to stay away from the woods. His words seep in and out of your ear.
You feel that prickling sensation again. You search through the crowd, eyeing the rows of frantic students.
Toru stares right back.
~
Eventually, the school releases you.
People are encouraged to pair up in groups if they are walking home. Suguru had a club meeting that ran late. Shoko went home early. In the end, you were forced to walk home alone.
It’s not as scary as people thought. Besides, it gives you time to think.
Mostly, you thought about Shinichi.
You saw him just yesterday. He was smiling, maybe even laughing. And now, he was gone.
You were probably one of the last people to see him alive.
You and–
A loud honk disrupts your thoughts. You whirl your head to the side.
Her window is down. Her head is leaned against the wheel. There’s a sly smile on pretty pink lips.
“Tryna’ ditch me?” She teases. “Get in.”
You blink at her.
“No,” you eventually say. It sounded snappier than you liked. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She says nothing to that. You keep walking. You expected her to whine, inch her car forward as she demands you to get in. She’s always been a brat, it’s not like her to give up so easily.
There's a yank on your back. You stumble, feeling your backpack slip from your arms. When you glance behind you, Satoru’s already shoving your bag into the back of her car. She shuts her trunk with a victorious grin.
“If you want it back, you’re gonna have to work for it.” She tells you, before climbing back into her seat.
Like you could ever win against her. Feeling your mood sour by the minute, you slipped into the passenger seat. Satoru doesn't wait for you to buckle yourself in before driving off.
The two of you sit in silence for two minutes. Eventually, Satoru breaks it.
“So?”
“So?” You repeat.
“Are you gonna tell me why you’re so pissy lately or will I have to needle it out of you?”
You stare out the window. “I’m not pissy.”
“That.” She tells you. “That’s pissy.”
“I’m not–” You swallow.
You peel your eyes from the window, daring to glance her way. Her shirt is low enough for you to see a hint of cleavage. Her makeup is bold: deep red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. Her skirt keeps riding up, letting you see creamy thighs.
It’s not like her at all.
“Did something happen?” You finally ask. “On the trip.”
“What do you mean?”
You can’t help it. It comes out all at once.
“What I mean is that you disappeared for days. You refused to call or text or anything. And now you’re back like nothing happened, and I’m supposed to believe you went on a ski trip?”
She waits for a minute. Maybe two.
“Oh,” she says. “You missed me.”
You’d yank her hair if your life wasn’t in her hands right now.
“You get so cute when you get all worried.” She gushes and you frown even deeper. “Don’t worry, I missed you too!”
She giggles and you feel your face heat up, but you’re not too upset at her teases. It reminds you of what you two used to be like.
“Of course I was worried for you, idiot,” you say. She was your best friend, after all.
She laughs again, before it dies down.
“You’re right,” she finally says. “I didn’t exactly go on a ski trip.”
You glance over. She’s still smiling but it’s strangely shadowed somehow.
“Oh,” you respond. “So…where did you go, then?”
She taps dainty painted nails on the steering wheel. You like the color. A glistening red.
“My folks took me to some last-minute family thing,” she says. “They called it tradition-” She rolls her eyes “-a bunch of bullshit really.”
You nod, not wanting to prod further. You knew Satoru’s family. They considered family and the clan to be extremely sacred. Obviously, they’d have some weird customs they’d force Satoru into. You also got the feeling they were elitist and maybe sexist. Despite the financial freedom Satoru got, it always felt like it came with strings attached. Good grades, perfect attendance, a compliant demeanor. Absolute perfection. The tension between her and her folks was ice-cold. She was constantly at odds with them.
You take a peek at her outfit again. You may not know them intimately, but the Gojo family would definitely not approve of her outfit. Especially the matriarch.
You’ve only met Satoru’s grandmother a few times, but it didn’t take you that long to realize she didn’t like you. Her blue eyes were always tainted with disdain whenever she looked down at you. It was a bit insulting, honestly. Apart from her, you were actually great with the elderly. She was a stain on your perfect people skills record.
“Satisfied?” She asks. You can hear her smile. “Are you still angry I ghosted you?”
“I wasn't angry.” You tell her, and now your irritation feels silly. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
You make sure to keep your eyes on her, wanting to watch every micro expression as you speak.
“Shinichi.”
She didn’t stop smiling. She didn’t even blink.
“I was just really surprised about what happened to him,” you continue. “I knew him. Just…one second he was in class, the next–” Dead. Gone. Devoured.
Satoru hums. “Yeah, I heard it was a bunch of coyotes. They just tore him up until there was nothing left.”
You almost take a moment to comprehend her casualness. She spoke like she was talking about the weather, not a gruesome death.
“Yeah…” You trail off. “It was horrible.”
“I–I still can’t believe someone I knew died like that,” you say. “And it was Shinichi. How is that even–”
“Hey,” Satoru’s voice is sharp. It startles you.
Her smile is gone. A thin line replaced it. Her grip on the steering wheel is tight enough to make her knuckles grow white.
“Let’s stop talking about him”
You wanted to ask about it right there. The words were on the tip of your tongue. She was the last person who saw Shinichi alive. It was a morbid curiosity to ask what he was like just before he fell off the world.
“Okay,” you say instead.
Despite ordering you to stop, Satoru didn’t seem too keen on following.
“You liked him, right?” She presses.
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. Satoru takes it as her answer.
“I just don’t see what you saw in the guy,” she continues. “So…bleh, y’know?”
“We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“I’m just saying,” she argues. “You deserve someone way better. Trust me, that guy was not good news.”
You think of the heat in your stomach when Satoru led Shinichi to her car. The tight grip she held onto his hand. Envy. God, it all felt so silly all of a sudden.
“Do you like him more than you like me?” She suddenly asks.
You burst into laughter.
It was just like her, to constantly ask for scraps of attention and approval. She strove to be the best in her academics. She wanted to be number one in her sports team. Why would competition for her best friend be any different?
“What’s so funny?” She demands as your laugh dies down. You shake your head.
“I don’t like you, I love you.” You ease into your seat. Your heart feels full. You’re happy.
You two were back.
She’s smiling. It’s goofier, and a bit smug. You missed that smile of hers.
You missed her.
For the first time in a week, you two finally have a real conversation. Satoru shit-talks the girls in her color guard team, as always. You chide her for being too strict on them. You complain about teachers and pop-quizzes. Satoru shows you a band she’s been listening to.
You almost don’t want to get out of the car by the time she pulls out on your street.
“Wanna come in?” You ask. “My mom would love to see you.”
“I got something I gotta do.” She waves you off. “But I’ll text you later.”
You hum, stepping out of the car and grabbing your bag.
Her hand latches onto your wrist.
When you glance back, her eyes have soured. Warm oceans turned into cool ice.
“You do like me, right?” She presses. “More than anyone?”
You smile, confused.
“I kind of have to.” You respond with a laugh. “We’re best friends, right?”
You expect her to smile back. She doesn’t.
Her nails dig into your skin ever so slightly.
“Yeah.” She pulls away. “Besties.”
You can’t name her tone, but the firm line on her lips remains. It’s like she’s retreated back into her head, obscuring herself from your view.
That prickling sensation is back again. It crawls up your back, latching at the sides of your neck. It only stops when you shut the door behind you, blocking yourself from her vision.
The scent of smoke fades and you finally feel yourself breathe again.
~
Now thinking about it, you could name the exact day the Gojo matriarch stopped liking you.
Truthfully, she never actually liked you. A mild tolerance, maybe.
Clearly, she was the type of person who believed that those of higher class should mingle with each other. When her granddaughter started bringing home a child who’s parents were middle class at best, she wasn’t pleased. Still, she never outright chastised Satoru. Again, it was a mild tolerance. You were a blip on her radar.
You became friends with Satoru in the first week of second grade. It was less of a meeting, more of a kid latching onto your arm and immediately declaring you as ‘hers’. You don’t remember having an issue with the possession. You liked being Satoru’s friend. She let you braid her long wispy hair.
Satoru soon became Toru, and you quickly found yourself inseparable from each other.
Teachers found it adorable how much Toru clung onto you. You two were always found together, always paired up for projects and assignments. Sometimes, when she’s riled up enough, she’d suddenly declare how she’ll marry you. The surrounding adults got a kick out of that.
Peas in a pod. Two halves of a whole.
The real issue started when Toru began bringing you home.
You’ve never been in a house so large. You were scared you might get lost, so you’d hold onto Toru’s hand even tighter as she gleefully led you through her maze of a home. Up winding staircases. Past doors and doors.
You two would mostly stay in her room. You’d play with her grand dollhouse, dress up in her fancy clothes, have pretend tea parties and horribly tried to replicate royalty. It was stupid. It was childish. It was fun.
Even back then, you knew Satoru didn’t have a lot of fun within her cold, empty home.
Once, and only once, she took you into the backyard.
It wasn’t a backyard. It was more of a botanical garden. There were pretty flowers of all colors. The grass was neat and pristine. You’d never seen any place more beautiful in your life.
“This.” She told you when she led you through a patch of chids. “This is where we’ll get married.”
“It’s so pretty.” You gushed, plucking at a dahlia. “Can we invite our teacher to the wedding?”
“Yes!” She declares. “Everyone will come! I’ll be the bride, and you can be the groom. I wanna wear a pretty dress.”
Your lips sour into a frown. “I don’t wanna be a groom.” You complain. “I wanna wear a pretty dress too.”
Even from a young age, she hated seeing you unhappy. “We can both wear pretty dresses.” She decides.
You giggle and she holds your hand even tighter.
It’s barely a kiss. It’s a soft peck, a light brush of her lips against yours. When she pulls away, her ocean ocean eyes bloom just as fiercely as the cherry red across her cheeks.
“What was that?” You wonder.
“It’s what two people who want to get married do.” She tells you. For once, her voice is quiet. “Now, we’ll be together forever.”
You two were seven years old: too young to realize what it meant, too innocent to understand the danger of a small town with backwards customs.
The Gojo matriarch was not.
She grabs Toru’s arm before you could blink. Her grip on the younger Gojo is rough and violent as she drags your friend back into the house.
A short while later, a servant politely tells you that your parents are waiting for you at the front. You go home in silence.
You only see Satoru the next day at school. There’s a large bruise on her cheek. The teachers, pockets filled with Gojo’s money, ignore her.
When she sees you, she smiles.
It’s not as bright as it used to be.
~
As much as you try to avoid it, it forces you to notice it eventually.
It was the weekend. Satoru had dragged you out to the city. She parked her car somewhere in a crowded garage, forcing you to walk through dirty streets and busy roads.
Another shopping spree. So far, you've picked up some shorts and a velvet top. She, on the other hand, had about two bags per arm filled with skirts, dresses, crop tops. Designer. Expensive. Heavy. You had no idea how she was able to carry them all.
“Toru,” you call as she hurries on in front of you. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”
It was already dusk. The sky was filled with purples and pinks. The shadows grew longer and longer. You wanted to be back by the car before night came.
Satoru didn’t share the sentiment. She carried onward, the bags shuffling at her sides.
“Just a few more minutes,” she insists. “The store I was talking about is right around the corner, I’m pretty sure.”
You sigh, but you have no choice but to follow. As much as you loved her, she was way too overzealous for you sometimes. Constantly hyper-fixating on one thing or another, and tugging you along for the ride.
Despite it all, you shuffle towards her when you see a dark figure in a hoodie. Just from the way he stands, you could already tell what he was planning on doing.
“Nice legs.” He whistles at Satoru right as she passes him.
She barely spares him a glance, flipping him off.
“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath. You curl your lips in disgust.
You stared for too long. He catches your eyes.
A nasty smirk crawls along his haggard face.
“What about you, gorgeous?” He prods. “Wanna have a good time?”
It happened in a flash.
One moment, Toru was next to you on the sidewalk.
The next, she was grabbing the man by the throat, pinning him against the building.
With a single manicured hand, she hoisted him up until his feet dangled, crushing his windpipe. He choked, immediately grabbing onto her wrists, trying to wrench her off of him. She barely even flinched, continuing to keep him up there with a strength you’ve never seen from her before.
It was inhuman.
You only move when it sounds like he’s dying.
You pull on her hand. Nothing.
“Toru,” you say in urgency. “Let go of him. It’s fine.”
She barely even twitches. The look on her face is unsettling. No scowl. No smile. Her features were completely blank.
Like she was staring at nothing.
You yank harder on her wrist. You squeeze.
“Toru, please.” You beg.
She takes a moment, but eventually, she drops him just when he’s about to pass out.
He falls to the floor, holding his throat. Already a dark ring is starting to show on his skin.
You expect him to yell and scream. There’s nothing. He just staggers off, trying to get as far away as he can.
Relieved, he didn’t make a scene, you turn back to Satoru.
She had yet to move.
“Hey.” You shove at her. “What was that? Where did you learn to do that?”
Nothing. You give up trying to get anything out of her. Something on the ground catches your eye.
The shopping bags. She must have dropped them when the skirmish happened. You go to pick them up.
There’s a hand on your chest, forcing you against the wall. Immediately, she presses up against you, caging you in. You don’t move. You can’t. You just stare forward, right at her neck as her throat bobs up and down. The smell of the campfire is back again. Flickering and burning.
There’s a hand at your waist, keeping you in place. You press your fingers against the wall.
“Toru?” You weakly ask.
There’s a sharp inhale above you.
And then she’s gone.
By the time you blink, she’s already picked up her bags, continuing her way along the sidewalk.
After a second, you’re bounding after her.
Your mouth opens and closes as you stare at her back. What the fuck was that? You wanted to ask so badly.
“I think we might’ve missed it.” She suddenly says.
“What?” You say dumbly.
“The store.” She glances back at you with a ‘duh’ look. “I think it might’ve been on the next corner.”
“Oh,” you say, voice vacant. “Toru?”
“Hm?”
Your mouth closes into a sharp line.
“It’s nothing.”
~
For the first time in a while, Satoru comes over for a sleepover.
Your parents were ecstatic. Dinner was served with hot homemade food and extra hospitality. Your mother was delighted that her “second daughter” came to visit. She offered Satoru, seconds and thirds. You were starting to acknowledge that Satoru might be your parent’s favorite child.
“Your parents are always so sweet.” Toru tells you.
You sit on the blankets, still scrolling on your phone. She’s already underneath the covers, peering up at you. She smells like your soap and shampoo, dressed in your clothes because she always manages to ‘forget’ to bring her own.
“Pretty sure my mom loves you more than she loves me.” You mutter. “Trust me, you’re the favorite.”
Your words sound bitter, even when you truly aren’t. Your parents know better than anyone how neglected Toru is in her home. Being showered in money and luxury could never replace parental affection.
She laughs, curling up in your pillows.
“I missed this place.” She murmurs into your pillows. You know she’s annoying you on purpose when she buries her head into the pillows, taking a deep breath.
“If you keep being creepy, I’m kicking you out,” you tell her pointedly.
She pouts, arching her pretty lips into a frown. “You’re a meanie.”
You scrunch your nose when the smell of incense wafts into the room.
“And why are you wearing perfume?” you chide, “we’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“I’m not wearing perfume.” She tilts her head.
Was she telling you that was just her natural scent? You doubt it, but you don’t bother arguing. Besides, she’s already starting to whine.
“And we can’t sleep now!” she argues, “we never hang out these days. We should do something.”
“Are you not exhausted?” You two had been running around all day: spa day, manicures, shopping trips. How was she not tired?
She shakes her head, rocking back and forth from her spot on the bed.
“C’mon!” she urges. “Let’s watch a movie or something. A horror movie.”
“You watch,” you tell her, crawling underneath the blankets. “I’ll sleep.”
She frowns and if she was the Satoru before, she’d be whining more. The Satoru tonight pouts as you lift the blankets.
You stare down at her pretty blue eyes. Pink lips. Long lashes. Her nails are a different color today. Black.
“Yeah.” You finally say. “You are different.”
“Hm?” She peers up at you.
“I don’t know how else to say it,” you confess, “but you’re…brighter somehow.”
You can see it in her eyes. Lighter. Less cloudy. The sky on a bright summer day. You haven’t seen her like this since she was a kid.
Like she was free.
Toru takes interest in this. She props her head up, eyes lingering on you.
“Am I?” she wonders.
You nod.
“It’s nice,” you tell her, “you used to act like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders and now…”
Before, she still laughed, still joked around, but it all felt controlled. You always thought of it as strings digging into the skin of her arms and legs. She was a puppet hung on nylon thread. They yanked her back every time she said the wrong line.
“Yeah, I can feel it too,” she tells you, “I think I’ve just realized that I can do whatever I want.”
Her fingers gently crest on the skin of your arm.
“I can have whatever I want.”
You catch the stress in her words.
“Is there something you want?” Something Satoru wants? For a girl who has everything, you can hardly comprehend her having a desire for anything.
“Yeah.”
The air stops. The room grows dark. For a moment, you feel as though you and Satoru are the only two people left in the world.
She’s closer now. You hadn’t noticed she moved. Her breaths match yours.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out again.
“Something I’ve wanted for a really long time.”
Blue fills your vision. The walls are closing in. Lips draw closer to your cheek.
“I think I’m finally gonna have it.”
Her head suddenly slumps down onto your shoulder. Soft white hair tickles your neck.
“Your mom’s fluffy pancakes,” her whine is muffled by your shirt, “can you please ask her to make them tomorrow?”
You’re laughing out of relief. You push her away from you, urging her to lie on the pillows.
“Only if you sleep now,” you say.
She grumbles something, but she doesn’t argue after that. It’s quiet after you shut off the lamp.
The next morning, Toru gets her wish. She eagerly chomps down on your mom’s cooking, while your parents gush at how well she eats. You were chiding at how messy she was, urging her to add less maple syrup.
It’s still in the back of your head all morning. It lingers when Satoru leaves your house. It stays until days later.
Eventually, you tell yourself that you were flustered. Of course you were flustered. You hadn’t expected Satoru to get so close like that. She was always clingy, but this was the first time she was this daring. It was just playful, you don’t need to over analyze yourself.
And yet you can’t help but remember the shiver down your back. You remembered the way you could hear your heartbeat throughout the night.
It almost felt like fear.
~
(It was some type of field trip.
The last day of third grade. The teachers wanted each student to have one last fun day before school broke out for summer break. Over 90 kids were released to run around the local park. Most children gravitated towards the lake, entranced by fishes and ducks.
You and Toru wander toward the other side of the lake, straying from the teacher’s eyes.
It was your idea. You’d been giddy all morning, barely able to contain the secret. You wanted to wait until you and Toru were alone before you showed it to her.
She was equally excited, following obediently as you led her along the shore. Dragonflies soared across the lake’s surface. Frogs dove under lilypads. If you weren’t so distracted, you might’ve been tempted to catch one of them.
Today, you had a mission.
“Look!” You tell her eagerly. The envelope in your hand laid crinkled. You weren’t kind to it, opting to stuff it in your pocket for safe-keeping. Stubby hands carefully unfold the paper.
“What is it?” She curiously asks. She recognizes the name scrawled in bright green crayon. It was that kid with thick-rimmed glasses. Toru often saw him doodling wobbly monsters on his papers.
You give a coy smile.
“It’s a love letter.”
You keep on rambling, too engrossed in your own story to notice the way Toru’s breath hitched, the way she froze. You talk about how he stopped you just before class started. His hands shook. His voice wobbled. Cherry red plastered across his cheeks as he shyly murmured, ‘I like you’–
At first, you thought you fell.
You sank further down. Your ears filled with water as your clothes softly swished in the current. Panic was slow to catch up. At first, you thought about how angry your parents would be when they found out you drenched your clothes in pond water.
The water wasn’t deep. A little more than one foot. You could easily wade out.
Tiny hands break the surface, reaching out for you. Toru’s hands. You instinctively reach out so she could pull you out.
Her hands reach past yours, right at your neck, and you’re pushed further underwater.
Panic kicks in then. You flail your arms. Your feet. Adrenaline claws at your veins even when there’s nowhere for it to go. Your lungs are screaming for air but all you can do is look up at the blurry image of your friend because she’s killing you, she’s killing you, she’s killing you.
Just when spots cloud your vision, something gives. You’re hauled up from the surface and dropped onto the banks. Sunlight heats your soaked skin. Your drenched clothes cling onto your arms and legs. You’re coughing up water and sobbing. You still can’t understand what happened.
Satoru is silent. Through your tears you can still see her. Her clothes are also wet but it doesn’t look like she cares. You’re barely able to control your shuddering breaths when she speaks.
“He can’t have you.”
Her voice is devoid of that childish lilt. It’s smooth and calm.
You look up at her.
Her face is blank, but her eyes are filled with so much venom…
“He can’t have you. Nobody can have you. You’re mine.”
…you feel like you’re staring at a monster, rather than a child.
People catch on eventually. Adults and other kids crowd around your soaked body. There are worried shouts of ‘What happened?’ while teachers gently urged you to calm down.
“She fell.” Toru spoke up. Her original voice is back, filled with childish innocence that now sounds as fake as candy.
Someone is urging you to your feet. Another is urging you to breathe. All you can see is how the teachers and students gather around Satoru, praising her for saving your life.
She meets your gaze then.
She’s smiling.)
When you wake up, your breaths are just as ragged as that day from the lake.
You kick off the blankets, uncaring if they fell off the mattress. The carpet is soft under your feet as you make your way into the bathroom. You flick on the lights, knowing what you’ll see but still uncertain.
Your skin is shiny and dull. The circles underneath your eyes are darker. Makes sense. You haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately.
It was the first time you ever truly completed that dream.
No, not a dream. Not a nightmare. A memory.
You must’ve repressed it for years, forcing it to sink down and down.
You think of Satoru’s eyes back then. They were just as bright as the ones Satoru has now.
Maybe you were wrong. Maybe Satoru was always like this.
Until now, she just hid it better.
The memory of the lake, that cursed letter, still plays in the back of your eyes.
You take a deep breath, and you drown it.
~
You hadn’t visited the Gojo household in a while.
Satoru doesn’t invite you too often. You understand why. She prefers your house over yours. You share her thoughts. Her house always felt cold and empty. Despite the multitude of servants and housekeepers hired to keep the house running, it always felt lifeless.
Tonight, that feeling only got worse.
Your mom dropped you off minutes ago, but you still hesitate to go in. The house looks darker, somehow. Maybe you hadn’t been here in a while, but it felt so different.
You linger around the mansion. A ding from your phone indicates your time is up. It’s from Toru.
‘Door’s unlocked.’
Large, mahogany doors groan as you push them open. The interior isn’t so much different compared to the exterior. The house looks just as abandoned from the inside. There’s barely enough light to see. Apart from the windows casting in sunlight, there’s not much else. There’s dust on the floor, in the air, on the windows.
It’s such a stark contrast to house strict the gojo household was typically maintained. Earlier it looked well-kept but empty. Now, it just looks…empty.
“Boo.”
You scream.
Satoru laughs.
“I really hate you,” you tell her once you’ve calmed down, “you know that, right?”
“I know,” she cheerily tells you.
She leads you through the house. You follow close behind.
“So, where is everyone?” You finally ask. You don’t usually see Toru’s family members during your visits, but you always see attendants and servants around.
Right now, it just feels like it’s just you and Toru.
“My folks went to some gala thing.” She tells you, walking ahead. You can’t see her face.
“Right.” You nod. “But what about the others?”
She hums.
“No idea,” she says, “they just stopped coming around. ‘Must’ve gotten fired.”
You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing. Satoru is more than happy to change the subject to whoever pissed her off that day. You idly listen as she rants and rants. You don’t mind her griping. It’s a nice distraction from the hollow mansion.
At least her own room is warm. It’s bright and completely lit up with fairy lights. You sit on the fluffy pink comforter, admiring the posters she put up from her favorite band. She changes her favorites every two weeks. You doubt those faces will be up the next time you visit.
Toru turns the lights off, taking her own seat next to you.
“Ready?” She asks, the tone of her voice is mischievous.
You settle onto the bed, frowning.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
After days of begging, Satoru finally convinced you to watch a horror movie with her. You were never a fan of scares. Up until recently, neither was Toru.
“When did you suddenly get into the genre?” You prod. “You used to be scared of Goosebumps.”
“The summer camp one is really scary,” she argues. “Also, aren’t people allowed to change?”
Yeah.
She’s done a lot of that recently, hasn’t she?
You don’t respond. Instead, you turn back to the TV screen.
“So, is it a slasher?”
“No,” she tells you, fiddling with the remote, “It’s a bad-good horror movie. You’ll like it.”
She was wrong. It was a lot gorier than you anticipated. The storyline itself was pretty cliche. A family moved into a haunted house, oblivious to the haunted part. Very quickly, things begin to go wrong. All the classic tropes are there: delayed jumpscares, pentagrams in the basement, children crawling up walls.
“Let’s skip this part.” You tell her when the male lead and female lead inevitably start making out. You immediately sour when the scene stretches on to them taking off their clothes. You never understood why horror movies always focused on these parts.
Satoru laughs. “What, never seen dick before?”
When you stay silent, she slowly turns to look at you.
“Really?”
“You haven’t either.” You argue.
“I have, but I didn’t just look.” She tells you with a sly grin. You blink, thinking of the numerous boyfriends she used to parade out in the past. You never knew she went that far.
“You’ve never even had your first kiss, have you?” She leans in, clearly delighted at embarrassing you.
You frown, speaking without really thinking.
“My first kiss was you, idiot,” you tell her.
It’s the wrong thing to say. You immediately sense it in the air. There’s a sudden drop in temperature. A chill travels down your spine.
Satoru opens her lips. A deep breath.
“Yeah,” she says, voice quiet, “I was your first.”
You don’t know why she says it like that. It sounds less like a funny memory and more like a claim. Her eyes are wide and unwavering. She leans in closer. You’re stiff.
“I was always your first.” She’s close enough that you can feel her breath on your cheek. “‘Makes sense I should be your first for this, also.”
That same feeling is back. You’re a mouse, caught in sticky sap, the more you struggle the more you sink.
Her hand ever so slightly brushes up against your thigh.
The jolt is enough to send you careening back.
“The fuck are you talking about?” You hope your laugh isn’t too forced. “Oh, we forgot the popcorn! Should I go make some?”
You’re already slipping off the bed. The movie is still playing. There’s the exaggerated sounds of screaming and ghostly moans. You can’t look at Satoru, but you can feel her stare.
“Sure.” She finally says like nothing just happened. “I’ll pause the movie.”
“Don’t you dare.” You tell her.
You finally feel like you can breathe again when you leave the room and start for the kitchen. The chill returns, but you prefer it compared to the suffocation you felt in Satoru’s room.
Why was she acting like this? You try not to think too hard. She was just joking again. It’s her personality to be clingy.
But you’ve never seen her act like that before.
You brush away your thoughts about Toru, for now. When you get to the kitchen, your thoughts are focused on popcorn and nothing else.
It’s strange being here alone. Usually, there’d be an attendant or two lounging around, waiting on hand and foot. Now, there’s nothing but the chill to keep you company.
You watch the popcorn rise in the microwave. The loud pop pop pop is a relief to your ears. It’s a nice buffer from the quiet.
Since you aren’t an animal, you take your time to find a nice glass bowl. You wait until the popcorn is cool enough to pull apart the back. Slowly, you shake until every last kernel is safe in the bowl.
You’re stalling, but you won’t admit that to yourself.
Eventually, you have to return. You trudge your feet up back towards Toru’s room. A curtain catches your eye.
The door to the garden is half-open.
You hadn’t been to the garden in years. Not since that day.
You slow your walk just before you pass it. It’s barely lit outside. The flowers still bloom, even when the only light source around is the moon and the dim lanterns.
You set the bowl by the door.
Toru wouldn’t notice if you got back a little later, right?
It’s a lot cooler outside. The chill air leaves goosebumps across your skin. The grass is damp beneath your feet. You don’t mind it. The scent of flowers is fresh in your nose. You hadn’t been here in almost a decade. You wondered if anything’s changed.
Things have. There are more labels now. Beneath every shrub and flower, there’s a tiny sign. Plumbagos, one reads underneath dancing purple flowers. Cosmos, says another. Echinacea, delicate pink petals sing. Lantana, Guara, hibiscus, Aster, Roses.
You follow the signs deeper and deeper into the garden. You linger around others, breathing in their scents. Some smell sweet, others smell a bit more like citrus.
And then, there’s suddenly the pungent smell of death.
It’s such an instant shift you feel your throat close up. For a moment, you get nauseous. What is that smell? Did some type of animal die in the garden? Or maybe it was some type of new soil treatment? Compost?
You pull out your phone, and flick on the flashlight.
Instantly, you regretted it.
Bodies. A pile of bodies laid right next to the roses. Flies buzzed around decaying flesh. The smell only got worse the more you stared.
Is
The worst part was that you recognised them. You knew their faces. Before, they wouldn’t even glance at you. They used to ignore you. They used to look down at you.
Tonight, the entire Gojo family gazes up at you in frozen horror.
“You aren’t supposed to be here.”
Your phone drops. You spin around.
Her face is dull. She’s no longer putting up the faux bright eyes and the artificial smile.
Maybe she’s realized there’s no point anymore.
Deep down, you understand what happened. Deep down, you know what’s about to happen.
Still you blabber. Still you fumble because Toru is your friend.
“Toru?” You call out, voice weak. “What—what is all this? Did—did you—“
“Go back inside.”
You shake your head. You feel like you barely have the strength to stand. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not because of the cold.
“What happened?” You beg. “Just—just tell me what—“
She says your name then. There’s no term of endearment. It’s clinical. Devoid of any feeling.
“Go back inside.”
She takes a step forward.
You take a step back.
She tenses. Her body shifts in a way that can’t be human.
You run.
You don’t know where you’re going. The garden is a dead end. You just want to get away from her, away from the flowers, away from that cold mansion, away from the bodies.
She lets you go for 45 seconds, and then she closes the distance.
There’s a yank on your shirt, and you’re pulled down into the grass. Your back hits the ground, and she instantly straddles your hips. You shut your eyes as you hear her haggard breathing. It’s not from running.
She sounds animalistic. Excited.
“Look at me,” she demands. She pulls back your arms as you pathetically try to hide your face.
You refuse. You can’t. You’re so scared. You’re close to breaking. You can’t look.
“Look at me.”
There’s a squeeze on your wrist, threatening to break.
Slowly, you pull your arms back.
You look.
The gibbous moon illuminates her white flowing hair. Her skin is paler, almost a stark white. She’s grinning. Her teeth are sharp.
But her eyes are what truly makes you cry.
Her eyes are so bright and blue.
They’re glowing.
She looked just like she did on that chilly October night. When there was dirt underneath fingernails. Bare feet in the ground.
The smell of bonfires singes your nose.
“It was you,” your voice shakes as the pieces come together, “you killed Shinichi, just like you…with—with your own family.”
“They were in the way,” she hisses and you flinch and sob harder, “Don’t you get it? He—They were in the way of everything we should’ve been.”
She reaches for you. You bat her fingers away. Weak, barely enough to do any real damage.
She leans down. There’s a sharp inhale as she leans into your neck.
“Stop it!” You thrash in her hold. “Stop talking like her—stop looking like her. You’re not her. You’re not Toru.”
“I am her.” She growls into your skin. “I’m better than her. I’m doing the shit she never had the balls to do.”
You’re shaking your head.
“You wanna know the truth?” She asks, shaking your shoulders. “Where did I disappear to for days? I was out here, getting set on fire by my dearest family.”
She grits her teeth. “They tied me down, told me it’d fix me, told me that what I felt about you–what I always felt about you– was unnatural. Monks were chanting as I screamed and screamed. I thought I was gonna die.”
You can barely listen. Your hands are on her shoulders, trying to push away, but she’s barely budging. She’s like a wall, unwilling to move, set on keeping you there.
“And then I woke up.” Her eyes simmer, like she isn’t there anymore. “I was stronger, faster, I wasn’t me anymore…I was more.”
Your sobs quiet as you stare up at her.
Hands trace your shoulders, your neck. Manicured fingers swipe across your trembling lips.
“They tried to take me away from you,” she’s telling you. “Of course I had to get rid of them. All of them. Shinichi too.”
A wide smile stretches across her face. You’re suddenly eight years old again, held underwater by childish fingers. All you can do is suffocate. Drown.
“It was the only way to get everyone out of my way,” she whispers. “I’d do it over and over again. No matter what.”
You didn’t mean it. You were scared. You were pinned down by something that looked like your friend. Something that talked like your friend. Something that acted like your friend. You were scared. It comes out more hateful than you meant. Less fearful.
“You’re a monster.”
Her face falls. Heartbreak is written all over her face. You think she might cry.
“I thought you’d get it,” she softly says, sitting back up. “I… I thought you’d understand what I did for both of us…”
Another tear slips down your cheek. She brushes it away.
Her bright eyes narrow into slits.
“It doesn’t matter if you understand or not.” Her voice is harsh, devoid of any softness. “You’re mine, either way.”
“I just need to get that into your skull.”
“No,” you beg as claws dig into your skin, your shirt, yanking on your clothes. “Please just–”
She’s hissing into your neck, as she tears off your shirt with inhuman strength. You’ve only seen glimpses of it before. Now, it shows just as fully as tonight's moon.
Hands rake over your bra, playing with the strap.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” She growls into your ear as she pushes up the cup to fondle your tits. “Do you know how many times I’d lay awake with you next to me?” Her voice is shaky, excited, as she pinches your nipples. You yelp under her touch. A purr rumbles within her throat.
“You were right there. You were always right there. I just could never touch you–” When you reach out with your own hands to stop her, she shackles both wrists with one hand, keeping them above your head “-until now.”
Fingers trace down to your stomach. You jerk.
“Stop–”
Your voice gets caught in her lips.
Your second kiss is nothing compared to the first one. There’s no yearning, gentleness care. It’s harsh–filled with sharp teeth, lust, possession.
She bites down on your lips. You whine against her mouth.
When she leans back, there’s a trace of blood on her plush lips. Her eyes are at half-mast. It’s like she’s drugged. Drunk off the taste of you.
“You taste so good.” She sighs. “Even better than I thought you would.”
You’re dazed from the kiss, your mind struggling to understand how this night turned so wrong. You don’t notice the way her fingers tug on your shorts. Nimble fingers skim past your panties.
Her forehead presses to yours. Bright blue eyes stare into your own.
“I love you,” she tells you and you think she believes it, “I love you.”
You think once she did. Once, her love was gentle and pure as she held your hand as you two squabbled about wedding dresses.
And maybe she still does. However, it wilted and burned. It was charred from the outside fires, left abandoned. And then it was warped into something sicker, more twisted.
A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I love you.”
Two fingers roughly enter your pussy.
You gasp. So does she. You realize it the same time she does.
“You’re so wet,” her voice is quiet in wonder as she continues to push her fingers into your hole. “Fuck.”
You jerk under her grasp. You hate how well she plays you. The noises that escape your hole are humiliating. A wet squelch every time she forces her fingers back into your warm heat. Your pussy contracts with her movements, like it’s trying to keep her inside.
You zip your lips shut, forcing yourself to curl into her chest to hide. She’s not kind enough to let you.
“Stop that,” she chides, nudging you away. “I wanna hear you. Lemme hear how good I’m making you feel.”
You shake your head in the last form of rebellion you have. As punishment, she shoves her fingers deep enough that it hits something spongy inside of you. You can’t help it. You moan around her fingers.
“Yeah.” You could hear the grin in her voice. “Just like that.”
Her thumb presses on your clit as she leans down towards your chest. You shiver as a hot tongue circles your nipple before she envelopes it with her mouth. She suckles and bites, leaving you to squirm and weakly cry out as something coils deep inside you.
She’s not quiet either. Her gasps and purrs and is muffled by your tits as she lightly circles your skin with her teeth. She curls her fingers inside of you. Your hips snap up.
You can’t hide it. Satoru knows you too well for you to hide it. She knows when you're about to laugh, when you’re about to smile, when you’re about to cry…when you’re about to break right on her fingers.
She releases your tit with a humiliating ‘pop’. It’s already swollen.
“Getting close?” She goads when your thighs unwillingly clamp together.
You don’t respond, doing all that you could not to fall off the edge. Your hips jerk up and down, like you’re trying to ride her. A broken wail stops right at your throat.
“It’s okay baby, you can do it.” She urges, raking her teeth right on the skin of your neck until you feel the burn. “C’mon baby. Just a little more a little more–”
You’re screaming as your orgasm picks you up and smashes you onto the ground to splinter apart. It’s the hardest you’ve ever come in your life. Toru works you through it as your pussy milks her fingers.
She only pulls them out when you go limp.
Slowly, like she’s savoring the feeling of your battered pussy still clinging onto her. You spasm weakly as she retracts her hand from your underwear.
Her fingers, covered in your juices, glisten in the moonlight. She eagerly takes them into her mouth, loudly slurping on your essence.
“Sweet,” she grins.
There’s a flush to her cheeks. Her eyes no longer glow. It’s like the taste of you made her regain her human facade again.
You can’t move, not even when she’s done. All you can do is lay there as Satoru clicks her tongue, mumbling something about a mess. She adjusts your clothes, pulling back your shirt, realigning your shorts to preserve what little dignity you have left. She gives a satisfied sigh when she’s done, laying next to you on the grass.
She moves her head so she can hear your heartbeat. Satoru closes her eyes.
“Should we go out somewhere tomorrow?” She asks, calm, happy, elated, victorious.
You think of the bodies lying just on the other side of the garden, rotting away. You think of Shinichi left mangled in the woods.
“Yeah.” Your voice sounds so far away. “Okay.”
Your mother often warned you of monsters when you were little. She told you they’d hide under your bed, deep into your closet. They’d steal your shoes and coats, if you weren’t careful.
She forgot to warn you about the monsters on the bed. The ones you invited into your home. The ones with painted lips and freshly manicured nails.
You see her. The girl who stayed up with you until 4 am. The girl who helped you with your homework. The girl who stole your pens and pencils, claiming they worked better than her own. The girl who’d never leave your side.
But you also see her. The girl who’s controlling. The girl who constantly manipulates you into doing the things she wants to. The girl who hates seeing you happy if it’s not with her. The girl who nearly killed you over a fucking love letter.
(Dark content, noncon/dubcon, threats of gun violence)
finally completed the toji fic hope yall like it~
(Yandere, non con, dubcon, breaking/entering, attempted plan to murder, etc, etc)
Living near the countryside has desensitized you to the thumps and crashes you’d hear at night. In the beginning you’d be paranoid, laying in your bed for hours before gathering the courage to step out of the room, trusty bat in hand, only to find a stray cat staring back, right beside an open window. Nowadays, you’re cooly shooing away whatever creature that finds their way in your home. Mostly it’s cats, sometimes you’d get the occasional bird or racoon.
The situation has happened so many times that you aren’t even surprised to hear the soft rattle that comes from your kitchen tonight. You’re already moving, rousing from your soft bed, grabbing your trusty broom ready to scare away whatever creature you’d find scurrying about your kitchen floor. A rat, most likely.
But the thing rustling through your fridge is no rodent, and you don’t recognize this man.
It doesn’t occur to you that you’re being robbed until half a second later. Mainly because of how casual this bizarre situation is. He’s rifling through your food like it’s normal and you’re the weirdo carrying the broom.
“Damn, there’s nothing here. Do you not eat or something?”
You assume he’s thinking out loud, but he glances back at you like he expected you there.
“I-I haven’t gotten the chance to go shopping this week,” You find yourself replying.
He gives a hum, slamming the fridge shut, standing to his full height and you’re instantly aware of how ill-prepared you are to fight him. He’s huge, not just in height. He looks better fit for a bodybuilder than a run-of-the-mill robber.
You left your phone upstairs. Why the fuck did you leave your phone upstairs?
You lower your broom, trying to make yourself seem as little threatening as you can. Your mind is running too fast to conjure any real thoughts, but the part of you that hasn’t completely broken down yet is telling you it’s better to avoid any confrontation. A distraction.
“There’s a TV in the next room,” You numbly point towards the living room, “It’s brand new….would probably go for a thousand.”
He barely seems interested, eyes flicking to glance over before going to you.
“That’s nice,” He waves your offer off, “But I’m not here to steal your stuff.”
“You’re…you’re not?” You reply weakly.
There’s a grin on his face, a touch away from being maniacal. His hand is brushing his hip, lightly playing with the hilt of a gun.
Oh.
Maybe it’s because you’re still half asleep, your brain isn’t working as efficiently, it takes you a bit longer to process his intentions. When it finally does, the realization hits you like a train. Your mouth gets dry, it suddenly feels so cold. Fear. You’ve never felt fear like this before.
You don’t notice the steps you take backward. He does. The man groans in something you can only discern as annoyance.
“Don’t do that,” He frowns, “Come on, I’m trying to be nice here. I can’t chase you around the house, I'm supposed to make it look like an accident.”
His nonchalance is terrifying. Like he’s done this before. He probably has. How many people has he murdered in their own homes? How many bodies does it take to be so calm around imminent death?
You don’t have time to wonder, not when something he said catches your attention.
“Were…were you hired to come here?”
His mouth twitches and it looks like he’s thinking. Finally, he shrugs, like the information he gives won’t really do anything to harm him.
“Yeah, some rich folk in the city. Can’t remember their names for shit though.”
Someone had a vendetta against you? Enough to want to kill you? Your mind is running through every single name, every quarrel you’ve had. Family members, friends, aquantinances. Nothing enough comes up.
Nothing is supposed to. Only crazy people hire hitmen.
And hitmen are even crazier.
You take another step back.
He takes another forward.
You won’t be able to fight him, and trying to run will just piss him off. You know you can’t reason with him. If he’s come this far, if he looks so bored, nothing is going to stop him from actually killing you. Pathetically, you try anyway, if only to lengthen what’s left of your life.
“Please just-”
“Don’t start begging,” He groans, cutting you off, “That’s just annoying.”
“Isn’t there anything else you want,” You desperately say, “Anything? That-that isn’t…”
The hitman shrugs, “I mean, if you wanna’ try to pay me off, you can.”
“How-how much was the…” You can’t bring yourself to say it, but he seems to get your point.
The amount makes your eyes widen. Your reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by the man. He sighs, cracking his neck.
“Thought so,” He says, reaching to pull something out of his back, “Sorry, Princess, ‘Nothing against you, promise. Gotta’ pay rent somehow, right?”
“I-I can pay!” You interrupt, “Really! I can pay.”
He pauses, tilting his head. He’s probably thinking you’re pathetic but you don’t give a shit. The money will take a huge chunk out of your savings, but you could pay. You could live.
“With-with interest?”
He grins, “Now you’re speaking my language.”
He leans away, walking towards the counter. You still don’t move. Stiff. He seems to notice.
“Don’t be like that.” He chides, the danger in his voice fades, as though it was never there in the first place, “I’m trying to be civil now, aright? Anyway, let’s talk. How do you want to pay?”
“Whatever way you want,” You say numbly, “But…how-how am I supposed to know you won’t just go back to the person and ask them to ramp up his price?”
You hated how clinical you were talking about your own damn life, but you’re too emotionally exhausted to do anything about it, let alone try to put any sort of emotion behind your words.
“They won’t be able to find me.” A confident grin, that doesn’t make you feel any less uncertain. “Don’t worry about it.”
He cocks his head, studying you for a second.
“You look different from the photos I saw,” He’s saying, not necessarily saying them to you, “They don’t do you justice.”
You don’t say anything, fiddling with your fingers, hoping this creep will just give you his card and leave.
“Toji,” He suddenly says.
Your head snaps up.
“My name,” He says slowly, grinning all the while, “And yours?”
“...You already know,” You reply warily.
“I do. Say it.” This time his voice comes out sharper.
You comply anyway, still too scared to face the man. His relaxed demeanor returns and Toji says your name a few times, like he’s trying it out.
He’s looking around your house now, and you feel like it’s the first time he’s seeing it because it looks like he’s admiring it. Fingers tap on your counter.
“Nice place you got here,” Toji says.
You don’t say anything. He doesn’t really care, not until he gives you a sharp look, calculating.
“Sharin’ it with anyone?”
Oh. Oh. You did not like where this conversation was going.
“...I do,” You’re saying, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as strained as you think it is, “...With my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Toji repeats, dark eyes flicking back to you in interest, “Where is he?”
“Overseas,”
His grin widens, “So he’ll be gone for a while, right?”
“No, he’s-he’s coming back tonight-”
“Hm, but you just said he was overseas?” You hate his smile, how cocky he looks, but it’s washed away by the dread of him slowly sauntering up to you.
Unconsciously, you press yourself against the wall, hoping it can suck you in, and you can hide forever.
Toji reaches you before that can happen.
His touch is light, not gentle, but in the way that you can sense he isn’t really interested in touching you. Rather he’s just moving his hands unintentionally, around your face, your lips.
“You’re real cute, anyone tell you that lately?” His voice dropped, losing the lightness of his tone. You don’t realize he wants an answer until he presses on your jaw. It hurts.
“No…” You mumble.
Toji tilts his head, looking oddly satisfied with your obedience. You wondered if you should fight him off, if you should at least try. At the very most, your pride would still be intact. You could say you went down screaming.
“No boyfriend, huh,” Toji tsks, “You must be very lonely, in this big, empty house. Like an isolated housewife” His voice is low, and patronizing, and you feel like you’re being mocked but you can handle that. Tolerate it.
But you can see the change in his eyes. The interest. Once again, you weakly open your mouth.
“The money-”
“Later,” Toji says huskily, “It can wait.”
His lips are soft, but uncared for. You can feel the roughness of them as he glides them across yours. You think he’s thinking about holding back, being gentle, but it quickly disappears along with the lack of control. He’s rough, practically pressing you against the wall. You can feel his chest against yours. His shirt’s thin, it’d be no different if he didn’t have it on, but you think you prefer this. The barrier, no matter how papery it was.
He’s aggressive now, using his teeth, biting your lips until they’re raw, irritated. His hands are losing the domesticity, running fingers up and down your body. You fought back once, just once, with a tight grip on his even stronger wrist, nails digging into skin, hoping it’ll hurt. There was an irritated growl, and you hear the metal click of something being set off. After that, you let him have his fill.
When he pulls away, there’s a delirious look in his eyes. He’s panting, out of breath, excited. You’re panting too. You’re trembling. He doesn’t notice, more likely, he doesn’t care.
He’s sucking on your neck like a man in need. Wanton. His teeth are sharp, and you flinch when he bites down, just enough to leave a bruise.
“You’re pretty nonchalant about this, huh?” Toji casually asks, like he wasn’t making you dig your back against the wall. It’s a rhetorical question, at least you think it is. You find yourself answering anyway. To distract yourself.
“I don’t want you to hurt me.”
You wonder if you’re being too honest, but he’s laughing against your neck. Amused.
“Smart girl,” He breathes in your ear.
“If-if I do this with you,” You start, gaining his attention, “Will you leave?”
You can’t delude yourself anymore. You know what he wants, but this can’t be for nothing. It can’t. He has to promise that he’ll go. He can take his damn money and go. You can pick the pieces you sold later, when he’s out of your life, out of your house.
He smiles. You can feel it.
“Yes,” He finally says, “I’ll go.”
You both know his lying. You will yourself to believe it anyway.
His hands crawl underneath your shirt, exploring and reaching at everything he could possibly reach. You aren’t wearing a bra. He hums his approval in your ear. His hands are cold as they glide over your body, making you twitch when he reaches your tits. He gives a rough squeeze. You yelp.
“My bad,” Toji slurred. He’s not apologetic, but his movements are less erratic now.
You’re complying. At least, you think you are, with your stiff body, not pushing, not fighting. But something breaks when he’s manhandling you like this. Maybe it’s your pride, dignity, maybe both.
It doesn’t matter, not when the end result is still the tears dripping down your cheeks, stinging your skin.
He pulls away when you shudder out a sob, observing you. You wonder if he’s disgusted, maybe your tears discouraged him.
Your hopes dissipate when something hard presses against your thigh.
“Fuck, I’m a terrible person,” He’s laughing, like this is a shared joke between you and him. Like this is funny, “That shouldn’t have turned me on.”
It’s not funny, but you don’t dare say anything.
You want to feel relief when he’s bored of your shirt, tugging it down, but it’s quickly replaced by even more dread when he’s moving to your shorts. Your bottoms might as well have been made from paper, with how easily he rips them off. He lets out a happy sigh when he sees you aren’t wearing underwear. You just fester in your humiliation.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” He coos when you stiffly look away, “I’ll play nice, princess. Be soft and sweet.”
You should be grateful that he lets you hide in his chest as he traces light circles on your heat. You’re already wet. Humiliation is throttling.
He doesn’t lie. He’s gentle, at the very least. He thumbs your clit with a slow rhythm, constrained. It makes your hips bump into him. He laughs again. Every time you think about fighting him off, you think about the gun in his hands. You think about a bullet in your head. Your blood soaking the tile floor.
So you close your eyes and you let him, but you tell yourself that you won’t give in.
You fail at that too.
It’s the hushed gasp that causes him to really pay attention. He pauses.
“Ya’ like that, Princess?” As if to underline his question, thumbs your clit a bit more intently. It’s a lot harder to stifle your noises now that he’s trying to make you loud.
You hate it. You hate him. You hate how good he makes you feel. It’s a never-ending high, getting you closer but never close enough.
His fingers suddenly retreat, and whatever he builds up leaves with him. You sigh.
“Can’t let you have all the fun, can we?” Toji sneers at your perceived disappointment.
If it were anyone else you would have glared, but today, you timidly look away, just when he starts to unbuckle his pants. He seems to respect his clothes a bit more than yours. You don’t hear the rough sound of fabric tearing, just as he taps your cheek.
“Deep breaths okay, Princess?”
His statement makes you want to laugh. It almost sounds like he cared about you. Still, you unwillingly take his advice, just as something hot and thick lines up at your entrance. Your eyes widen, momentary panic makes you forget about the gun.
“No-no please don’t-!”
He harshly covers your mouth, just as he pushes himself inside. You give a muffled whine. He just gives a breathy hiss.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” He groans, as you choke on a scream. He has the graciousness to let you adjust to him. He rocks back and forth, letting his cock rub against your walls.
“So fucking good. Goddamn,” He huffs out a laugh, “Can’t believe that ‘boyfriend’ of yours gets this sweet pussy every night.”
You sob at his filthy praise, and yet, your body reacts. Your cunt clamps onto him like a vice as he stretches you out. Right to the hilt.
He starts moving eventually. Slow and steady, as he presses you into the wall. His hands find your tits again, roughly palming them as your squeaks of discomfort turn to unwilling moans. You find yourself growing even wetter, much to your dismay.
He seems to sense that too. His lecherous grin grows even wider. The scar tugs on his lips.
“Aw, you do like me.” He teases.
You glare at him. In turn, Toji slams his cock back into your battered cunt, extinguishing your look of disdain. You whine into his hand. He hums.
“Too much, baby? Or not enough?” He’s so fucking delusional. Why is he acting like you enjoy this? This is a special kind of hell, one concocted just for you. Where he is your jailer.
But he’s right. It’s not enough. It’s not enough because you’re stuck in that limbo yet again, but it’s okay because you’d rather die than fall apart by his hands.
He picks up the pace. You gasp, unused to the roughness of his touch. You still hold yourself back, telling yourself it’s not enough, it’s not enough. Your spine arches, despite the way you try to control your body, forcing yourself not to react.
It doesn’t work. It’s a laughable attempt at some type of control. He makes it worse by reaching down to thumb your puffy clit.
You don’t last much longer after that. Your orgasm breaks you, shattering you on the floor as you let out the loudest scream. It’s almost painful. You can feel it rupture through your bones, your skin. Toji doesn’t have the decency even to let up, fucking you through it, carrying you from one high to the next peak.
He crushes himself into you as he cums, grunting in your ear. You can feel the implosion inside of you, painting your insides white with him. The sudden warmth draws another reluctant whine out of your lips.
You’d stop supporting your own wieght a while ago, with only him to keep you upright. No longer interested in holding up your weight, Toji lets you sink to the ground with jelly legs. His cock slips out of you, wet and dripping. Content, he tucks it back into his pants.
The power imbalance is more apparent than ever. Dazed, you can admit to yourself that he’s pretty. Rugged, pieces of himself that he clearly put back together. His smile is nefarious as he gazes at you. His smile is gone, but there’s a satisfied look in his eyes. A tiger that’s sated but not yet full. You avert your gaze, feeling your tears well up again.
“Think you can get up?”
“No,” You honestly reply.
He laughs, leaning down to pick you up, assembling the pieces of you in his arms. He’s so gentle; for some reason, it makes it worse. Out of sheer exhaustion, you allow your head to rest against his broad chest.
The fan in your room is still spinning as he carries you toward your bed. You feel his hands leave your back as you drop on the soft pillows. You don’t know what you’re expecting, but he follows suit, shuffling under the covers after you.
You shift, turning on your side, hoping he won’t force you to cuddle with him. Surprisingly, he relents, moving his attention to something nestled in the covers. Your phone is taken from its resting spot, and placed somewhere behind him.
“That’s my-”
“I know. I’m gonna keep this just in case you get cold feet and do something neither of us will appreciate.”
“I won’t.” You whisper.
He hums, draping a large arm around your body, drawing you into his chest. The stilted conversation dulls and you’re forced to feel his breathing tickle your neck. You’re unnerved by how domestic this feels, how naturally Toji is able to crawl into your home, into your bed.
Despite your quickened heartbeat, you try your best to shut your eyes. You pray he’ll be gone in the morning.
The tightening of his arm tells you he won’t go away so easily.
“I just thought of something else I can use you for.” You can feel his grin on your neck.
CHOSO KAMO ⸝⸝ 7.3k ⸝⸝ summary: when his regular gym closes down, choso is forced to use the crowded university facility—a frustrating change of routine that vanishes the moment he lays eyes on you. for a month, he plays the part of the quiet, deeply respectful art student who spots you during late-night workouts, quietly hiding a consuming infatuation behind his oversized hoodies.
contents heavy smut (18+ mdni) fem!reader college au art major!choso and reader silent pining perv cho soft dom size difference cho has tattoos and piercing scent kink/fixation solo play shower sex oral (fem receiving) body worship and praise multiple orgasms overstimulation sweet aftercare (lmk if i missed any!)
a/n: i've had this idea for a long timeeee, after so many weeks it's finally done hehe (and goodness it took 99% of my brainpower). choso + dualities make me absolutely FERAL—my head got so dizzy after writing this piece i need to take a step back and calm myself down
choso hated the university gym with a passion that bordered on holy. if he wanted to be perceived by thirty different guys named brad whose entire personalities revolved around creatine, shattered glass pre-workout, and casual misogyny, he would have joined a fraternity.
instead, he willingly paid forty dollars a month out of his miserable student earnings just to lift in a damp, dimly lit basement three miles off campus. there, nobody looked at him, nobody spoke to him, and nobody cared that his black nail polish was chipped or that his hair was tied back into two messy, ridiculous space buns.
it was his sanctuary. it kept the anxious, hyper-fixated noise in his brain at a manageable volume.
but on a miserable tuesday afternoon, the universe decided to test him. a laminated sign taped to the front door of his beloved off-campus haven delivered the devastating blow: closed for the next seven days for emergency plumbing maintenance and floor remodeling.
choso had stood in the rain, staring at the paper, feeling a slow, icy panic creep up his spine. a whole week without lifting? absolutely not. his mind would eat itself alive. desperate times called for desperate, humiliating measures. he was going to have to use his student id card and step foot into the university's recreation center.
he didn't just walk in blindly, though. choso treated the dilemma like a tactical covert operation. he spent the next few days calculating the exact peak hours of the campus social scene, charting the behavior of the obnoxious herds he so desperately wished to avoid.
friday night, he realized. 11:30 pm.
by that hour on a friday, the entire campus greek life was guaranteed to be blacked out at off-campus house parties, suffocating in a haze of cheap beer, or lining up outside bars downtown. the gym closed at 1:00 am. it was a golden, ninety-minute window of safety.
when friday night finally rolled around, the campus was damp and quiet. choso walked toward the massive, glowing glass building of the university gym, his heart beating a little too fast against his ribs. he felt exposed, even wrapped in his usual armor—a thick, completely shapeless black oversized hoodie with the strings pulled tight, and a baggy cargo sweatpants that dragged slightly against the pavement.
he approached the front desk, his jaw set, and swiped his student id at the turnstile. he braced himself for the worst, fully expecting the smell of axe body spray and the echoing shouts of gym bros to hit him the moment he rounded the corner.
instead, when he stepped onto the main gym floor, he was met with a ghost town.
the harsh fluorescent lights hummed quietly in the silence. the long rows of treadmills sat dark and stationary. the heavy iron weights were all neatly stacked in their racks, undisturbed. aside from a lone student employee half-asleep behind the towel counter on the far side of the building, choso was entirely alone.
a wave of pure, intoxicating relief washed over him. he had been right. the frat guys were gone, busy poisoning their livers elsewhere.
allowing his shoulders to finally drop, choso walked over to a secluded corner in the free-weight section, far away from the main mirrors. he pulled his heavy, noise-canceling headphones over his ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the facility with the familiar, aggressive comfort of his favorite post-hardcore playlist. he yanked his hoodie hood up over his hair, completely shutting out the rest of the world.
for the first time all week, choso relaxed. he grabbed a set of dumbbells to start his warm-up—completely, blissfully unaware that this was the very last night his gym sessions would ever be peaceful.
by midnight, choso was completely in his element. the heavy, screaming vocals blasting through his headphones blocked out everything else, creating a private wall of sound that matched the slow, deliberate burn in his muscles. he had moved over to the flat bench, adjusting his posture and gripping a pair of heavy dumbbells. his gaze was locked entirely on the speckled rubber flooring between his shoes, his mind blank, focused only on the rhythm of his breathing.
he leaned back, kicking the weights up to his chest, and began his set. one, two, three. he was halfway through his fifth repetition when a sudden, unexpected shadow fell over him. choso barely had time to process the shift in lighting before a light, tentative touch tapped him right on the shoulder.
the physical contact startled him so badly that his core completely unlocked. his grip faltered, his left wrist buckling inward as the heavy iron dumbbell threatened to slip from his hand. a sharp spike of adrenaline shot through his veins, and he practically fumbled the weights, dropping them onto the floor with a loud, echoing thud that rattled through the empty room.
"oh my god, i'm so sorry! are you okay?"
choso scrambled into a sitting position, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. his pale face flushed with an instant, burning embarrassment as he hastily yanked his headphones down around his neck—the muffled, angry music now tiny and weak in the open air. he wiped a hand across his forehead, preparing his best, most intimidating scowl to ward off whoever had just ruined his peace.
but the words died in his throat the moment he looked up. standing right in front of him was you.
you were holding a small gym towel, your skin warm and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat from your own workout. you looked genuinely worried, your eyes wide as you looked at him, adjusting the strap of your tank top.
"i really didn't mean to scare you," you said, your voice soft and breathless, a contrast to the aggressive screaming that had just been filling his ears. "i just wanted to ask if you were using the forty-pound weights next to your bench?"
choso stared at you, his throat suddenly feeling as dry as sandpaper. his dark eyes took in the messy way your hair was tied up, the slight rise and fall of your chest, and the polite, apologetic curve of your lips. his brain, usually so loud and overanalytical, completely went blank. he forgot how to speak, he forgot how to breathe.
"n-no," he stammered out, his voice a low, raspy gravel that he quickly tried to clear. he cleared his throat, pulling his hood down a fraction lower to hide the crimson creeping up his neck. "i'm not using them. all yours."
you offered him a small, relieved smile that made his chest feel dangerously tight. "awesome, thank you so much. sorry again for the jump scare."
you leaned down, effortlessly grabbing the weights, and walked back over to an adjustable bench just a few yards away. choso sat frozen on his bench, watching your back as you walked away. his heart was still racing, but it wasn't from the adrenaline anymore.
he pulled his headphones back over his ears, but he didn't restart his music. instead, he just sat there in the silence of his own head, his eyes locked onto the floor as a single, terrifying thought bloomed in his mind: he was never going back to his old gym.
choso was a creature of habit, but habits could be easily rewritten when the incentive was high enough.
the following tuesday, his off-campus sanctuary sent out another automated email announcing that the renovations were finished ahead of schedule and the doors were officially reopened. choso didn't even look twice at the notification. he deleted it, swiped his screen shut, and stared at his ceiling, counting down the agonizing number of hours left until friday night.
he was completely, utterly gone for you.
during the week, choso reverted to his normal ghost-like state on campus. he moved through the fine arts building like a shadow, buried in the depths of his oversized, frayed black hoodie and wide-leg cargos, his fingers permanently stained with charcoal and oil paint. his long bangs fell into his eyes, a perfect shield from the rest of the student body. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.
except you.
when friday finally arrived, choso was a ball of nervous, vibrating energy. by 11:30 pm, he was swiping his student id at the turnstile, his heart doing a ridiculous, heavy flip the moment he stepped into the free-weight section.
and thank god, there you were.
for the next three weeks, this became your unspoken, late-night ritual. the gym was always a dead silent ghost town, save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation and the occasional clink of iron. you had your routine on your side of the floor, and choso had his on his side. you would exchange a small, polite nod of acknowledgement whenever he walked in—a tiny gesture that secretly made choso's entire week—but otherwise, you left each other alone.
at least, physically.
internally, choso's mind was a dangerous, hyper-fixated place.
he pretended to be entirely absorbed in his own workouts. he would sit on the bench with his headphones on, staring blankly ahead like a stoic, brooding statue. but behind the dark fringe of his hair, his eyes were locked onto you.
as an art student, choso was trained to study form, anatomy, and lighting—but with you, it felt like an agonizing form of torture. he analyzed the way your muscles shifted and flexed under your skin when you lifted, the tight strain of your thighs and glutes when you did squats, and the delicate, sharp line of your collarbones. his brain automatically translated the view into a series of raw, unedited figure drawings, tracking the trail of sweat as it rolled down the side of your neck, soaking into the collar of your sports bra.
a heavy, dark ache would pull tight in his lower stomach every single time you let out a low, breathy pant after a heavy set. his body tried to betray him, threatening to grow hard right there on the gym floor.
but choso forced it down.
every time his thoughts started to cross the line into something genuinely filthy, he would fiercely bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, forcing his gaze back down to the rubber flooring. he felt an intense, protective wave of guilt whenever his mind wandered too far. don't do that, he would tell himself, his chest tight. she's just trying to work out. don't be disgusting. don't disrespect her.
when he returned to his dark dorm room at 1:00 am, throbbing and completely overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume and sweat that seemed to linger in his nose, he didn't touch himself. he would lock the bathroom door, strip out of his clothes, and force himself into a freezing cold shower. he would lean his forehead against the damp tiles, his fists clenched as the ice-cold water sprayed over his burning skin, ruthlessly killing the desperate ache between his thighs that threatened to drive him mad.
he told himself he could control it. he told himself he could keep you on a pedestal, purely as a beautiful, distant muse.
he had no idea that his fragile self-control was about to completely shatter.
by week four, choso's luck finally pushed him over the edge.
it was a quarter past midnight. choso was finishing up a set of lat pulldowns, his hood down for once because the gym felt unusually warm. he was breathing a bit heavily, wiping his neck with a towel, when he felt that familiar, intoxicating shift in the air.
a shadow fell over him, followed by a light tap on his shoulder
choso turned around, his chest fluttering immediately. "hey," he said, his voice dropping into that low, quiet rumble he only used when speaking to you.
"hey," you smiled, looking a little out of breath yourself. you bit your lip slightly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder toward the bench press station. "sorry to bother you, but i'm trying to hit a new personal record on my final set, and i really don't want to crush my windpipe. do you mind giving me a quick spot?"
choso's brain stuttered. a spot. after three weeks of forcing himself to stay away, to keep his hands to himself, you were asking him to stand directly over you.
"yeah—yeah, of course," he managed to say, standing up quickly before his brain could talk him out of it.
he followed you over to the bench. you lay down, settling your shoulders against the black leather, while choso stepped up to the head of the bench, planting his feet firmly apart on either side of the metal frame. from this angle, looking down, his view of you was devastating. your chest was rising and falling, your eyes locked up at him, trusting him completely.
"just help me lift it off the rack on three, okay?" you murmured, reaching up to grip the barbell.
together, you guided the heavy bar off the pegs. you took the weight, pausing for a second before lowering it slowly to your chest. choso hovered his hands right beneath the bar, his fingers curled, completely focused.
but as you pushed the weight back up, your muscles straining—a low, guttural groan escaped your throat.
the sound hit choso like a physical blow, fracturing the wall of restraint he had spent three weeks building. combined with the view of your arched back, the heat radiating from your skin, and your absolute vulnerability beneath him, his body bypassed his brain entirely. all that suppressed, backed-up desire rushed straight to his crotch in a hot, violent wave.
within seconds, choso developed a massive, raging boner that pushed hard against the fabric of his baggy grey sweatpants.
oh, fuck, choso panicked internally, his eyes widening—because he was standing right above your face. the prominent, thick ridge in his pants was dangerously close to your line of sight. three weeks of cold showers vanished in an instant. he immediately hitched his hips backward, awkwardly arching his spine away from the bench to create distance, his heart hammering against his ribs in sheer terror that you would see how pathetic he was for you.
you pushed through the final rep with a sharp exhale, and choso quickly gripped the bar, helping you slam it safely back onto the rack.
"oh my god, thank you," you panted, sitting up immediately and rubbing your arms. you laughed a little, looking up at him with a bright, grateful smile. "i definitely would have died on that last one without you."
choso kept his hands casually draped over his crotch area, shuffling half a step back into the shadows, his entire body trembling from the effort of holding his composure. "you did fine. great form."
you didn't stand up right away. instead, you tilted your head, studying his face. "you know… i've been meaning to ask. you look really familiar. do you have classes in the fine arts building? on the studio floor?"
choso's heart did a violent stutter. "uh, yeah—i do, i'm a printmaking and painting major."
"i knew it!" you said, your eyes lighting up. "i'm a year below you in the sculpture program, but i see you in the halls all the time. you're always tucked away in the back corner of the studios, wearing those huge hoodies with the strings pulled tight. it's funny seeing you here without charcoal all over your face."
choso felt a burning blush crawl up his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. you noticed him. you knew who he was outside of this empty gym. you shared the same late-night, messy, creative world.
"yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his knuckles still strategically shielding his front. "i, uh… i like it quiet. both in the studio and here."
you smiled, stepping just a fraction closer as you casually offered your name, introducing yourself properly for the first time since you'd started sharing the floor. choso's entire body went completely rigid at the sound of it. your name felt heavy in the air between you—a beautiful, sharp reality replacing the nameless fantasy he'd been harboring for weeks. "choso," he managed to choke out in return, his voice thick as he gave you his own name. "nice to meet you."
"nice to meet you too, choso." you murmured, your voice dropping into something a little softer, a little more intimate as you looked up at him through your lashes. you took a slow step backwards, your eyes lingering on him for one final, devastating second before you turned to gather your things. "you know, i usually hate late-night workouts… but knowing you're always there? that's why fridays are my favorite."
choso felt the air leave his lungs. he couldn't tell if he was genuinely imagining things now—if his own pathetic, desperate fantasies were finally bleeding into reality and making him hear things that weren't there. but the soft, knowing look in your eyes felt entirely too real.
choso barely remembered how he walked back to his side of the gym after that. his self-control wasn't just broken; it was completely demolished, his mind spinning in a chaotic loop over your parting words. had you meant it? or was he finally losing his fucking mind?
the moment he stepped inside his dark room, there was no cold shower. he didn't even make it past the entryway. choso slammed the door shut, locked it with a frantic click, and shoved his grey sweatpants and boxers down to his knees right there against the wood.
his cock snapped free, completely upright, throbbing violently and weeping thick, heavy drops of pre-cum from the sheer agony of the twenty-minute walk back. he let out a low, ragged sob into the empty room, his hand wrapping around his length in a brutal, iron-tight grip. he squeezed hard, a sharp whine tearing from his throat as his hips jerked forward, instantly smearing his own slick up and down his shaft.
he closed his eyes, and the darkness behind his eyelids immediately filled with you.
because he was an artist, his memory was devastatingly vivid. he didn't just fantasize; he reconstructed you. he pictured the exact way your lower lip looked trapped between your teeth when you were straining under the barbell. he pictured the heavy, glistening sheen of sweat coating the delicate dip of your collarbones, the way your sports bra squeezed your chest, and the tight, mouth-watering curve of your thighs arched on that leather bench.
but what truly made his blood boil, what made his thick cock throb with a vicious, demanding ache against his palm, was the sudden intoxicating realization of your size difference. standing right over your face on that bench, he had felt so devastatingly big.
his artist's eye automatically compared the two of you—his broad, heavy-boned frame, his wide shoulders, and his massive, blunt hands against the softer, giving curves of your body. he imagined how effortlessly he could engulf you. he pictured your body pinned completely beneath his dense, imposing weight, swallowed whole by his shadow. the sheer contrast of it—how he could completely overwhelmed you with his height and mass, forcing you to look up at him while he held you down—made a low, feral sound rip from the back of his throat.
"fuck," he whined, his pace turning fast and punishing. his knuckles, still stained with a faint trace of charcoal from his afternoon studio class, rubbed friction against his burning skin.
he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, desperately chasing the auditory memory of your workout. he wanted your sounds. he was completely, helplessly addicted to them. that low, guttural, breathy groan you had let out right beneath him—he replayed it over and over in his head, matching the rhythm of his fist to the memory of your breath. he imagined what it would feel like to force those exact noises out of you himself. he wanted to push himself so deep inside you that you'd make those heavy, strained sounds against his ear, over and over until you were entirely spent.
his mind took a darker, filthier turn as the friction started to blur his thoughts. he looked down at his own hand, but in the fever-dream of his arousal, he imagined it was your hand. he imagined you gripping him, your small, soft palm slick with his pre-cum, looking up at him from the floor with those wide, trusting eyes while you made him stroke himself.
and then, the smell hit him.
the faint, intoxicating ghost of your scent had transferred onto his hands when he adjusted the barbell, or maybe when your shoulders had lightly brushed. it was a heady mix of clean vanilla perfume and raw, warm skin-musk. choso's breath hitched. completely unhinged, he brought his free hand up to his face, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth and nose. he took a deep, shuddering inhale, practically drinking the scent off his skin.
god, he was an absolute freak. a disgusting pathetic pervert. if he could have stolen your damp, sweat-soaked gym clothes right out of your locker just to bury his face in them and inhale you until he suffocated, he would have done it in a heartbeat. he wanted to track the scent of your sweat with his tongue, licking it off the curve of your neck, tasting how salty and warm you were.
but more than anything, his mind was utterly enslaved to the memory of your introduction. having your actual name in his possession was a dangerous, lethal upgrade to his madness. it wasn't just a fantasy anymore; you had a name. and it tasted like absolute sin on his tongue.
he started chanting it into the quiet darkness of his room. he whispered your name against his trembling knuckles, his voice a low, ruined prayer that matched the frantic, bruising rhythm of his hand. every time your name left his lips, a fresh surge of hot pre-cum leaked from his tip, his body physically reacting to mere syllables of your identity as if you were casting a spell over him. he repeated it over and over, faster and louder, turning your name into a dirty, desperate plea.
"ah—shit… please…"
the vocalization of your name snapped the last thread of his sanity. choso's movements became completely frantic, his hips slamming blindly against the door as he stroked himself with an unforgiving, desperate speed. his toes curled into the carpet, his entire body trembling as the pressure behind his hips reached a breaking point.
he imagined you standing right there in the dark, your hands guiding his hips, whispering that fridays were your favorite, too.
with a choked, breathless gasp, choso's knees completely buckled. he threw his head back against the door with a dull thud as his body spasmed, blowing a thick, hot, messy white flood all over his charcoal-stained fingers and the floor. he whimpered, his chest heaving violently in the quiet room, his leaking cock still twitching weakly in his hand as the heavy waves of pleasure wrecked him.
he slid down until his thighs hit the floor, completely covered in his own mess, very aware that he was entirely, hopelessly enslaved to you.
the next two weeks were a slow, agonizing descent into madness for choso.
ever since the night he had broken his restraint in his dorm, his mind was entirely corrupted. his sketchbooks were no longer filled with abstract layouts or still-lifes; instead, the pages were cluttered with charcoal studies of the human form—the curve of a waist, the flex of a thigh, the precise angle of a neck arched back in a phantom groan. he was losing his grip, completely consumed by the ghost of your vanilla scent and the memory of your voice.
he still played the part of the quiet, stoic classmate during your friday sessions, but the air between you had shifted. it was thicker now. every time your eyes met across the empty gym floor, choso's stomach would coil with a dark, expectant heat.
which brought him to this particular friday.
choso had run out of clean laundry—or perhaps, deep down in the desperate, pathetic corners of his soul, he was simply tired of hiding behind his armor. he dug through the very bottom of his dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of light grey sweatpants and a tight, black, long-sleeved compression shirt.
when he walked into the university gym at 11:30 pm, he didn't have his oversized hoodie to protect him. he was completely bare.
you were already there, finishing up a warm-up stretch near the free weights, when the turnstile clicked. you turned your head casually to nod hello, but the moment your eyes landed on him, you froze completely.
without the baggy fabric of his hoodies, choso's true physical form was devastating. his shoulders were incredibly broad, tapering down into a surprisingly narrow waist, and the thin, elastic material of the black compression shirt clung to the heavy, carved planes of his chest like a second skin. the fabric stretched tight over his thick biceps and long arms, mapping out every cord of muscle.
and those grey sweatpants were doing him absolutely no favors. the soft, light cotton left nothing to the imagination, casting a prominent, heavy shadow right down the front of his thighs that made it very obvious how much weight he carried between them.
choso felt your gaze like a physical brand on his skin. he watched your eyes dilate, your jaw going slightly slack as you traced his silhouette before quickly looking down at the floor—a violent, sudden rush of heat flooding your cheeks. the shy, swallowed-up emo boy you thought you knew was actually fucking jacked.
for the first time, choso felt a sudden, dark thrill pierce through his veins. you weren't just casually looking anymore. you were staring. you were flustered. the power dynamic had just completely shattered.
"hey," you said as he walked over, your voice sounding a little tighter, a little more breathless than usual.
"hey," he mumbled, adjusting his grip on a set of heavy dumbbells.
for the next forty minutes, the gym was a total disaster zone for your focus. you kept fumbling your sets, your eyes helplessly glued to the way his broad back flexed under that black fabric. choso noticed every single glance, his heart hammering against his ribs, his body humming with a dangerous, quiet confidence he didn't know he possessed.
finally, as the clock crept toward 12:45 am, choso moved over to the deadlift platform to finish his workout. he was loading heavy iron plates onto the barbell, his chest heaving slightly, when you slowly walked over. your gym towel was clutched tightly in your hands, your knuckles white.
"um, choso?" you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes.
he paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "yeah?"
"i… i was thinking," you began, your eyes momentarily darting down to his chest before snapping back to his face. "you've been helping me out for weeks. you always spot me, and you're always so nice about it… i kind of feel bad that it's only been you helping me. do you… do you need a spot on these? or do you want me to help you stretch out afterward? you look really tense."
choso's breath hitched, the heavy weight in his sweatpants twitching violently at the offer. help him stretch. the mental image of your hands pressing against his thick thighs, guiding his legs, or leaning over his back made his head spin. he looked down at you, acutely aware of how his looming height entirely shadowed you under the gym lights.
he looked around the gym. it was empty. the digital clock was ticking down to closing time, and the air between you was practically vibrating with unsaid desires.
"yeah," choso whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made your core throb. he leaned down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it feel like he was branding you right then and there. "i'm almost done. i could use your help."
your chest heaved as you nodded, unable to find your voice under the heavy weight of his gaze. you turned together, falling into step right beside his massive frame. the transition from the open weight floor to the stretching mats in the far corner felt like stepping directly into an active furnace.
you had laid out a heavy foam mat in the dim, amber shadow of the room, offering to guide choso through a cool-down stretch since his shoulders looked so tightly coiled. but the moment you stepped close, the physical reality of his frame hit you like a wall of heat. when you pressed your palms against the dense, burning expanse of his back, your breath caught. under the smooth, slick fabric of his black compression shirt, his muscles felt like carved, unyielding stone. he shattered your rhythm the second your skin met his, letting out a low, ragged exhale as his broad chest heaved under your hands.
when you stepped around to his front to help guide an overhead arm stretch, your bodies brushed. the sheer, towering height of his looming frame completely eclipsed you under the dim emergency lights. you looked up, your pupils wide and completely dilated, only to find choso staring down at you. his dark eyes were pitch-black, his irises swallowed up by a gaze so raw, intense, and heavily possessive that it made your core violently throb with a sudden, weeping ache.
he didn't wait for a verbal answer. his large hand slid down to wrap firmly around your wrist, guiding you away from the clanking iron of the lifting racks.
the restraint he had spent a month building was officially gone.
with a single, unyielding tug, choso hoisted you up and herded you backward through the heavy, double doors of the communal locker room. the thick door clicked shut behind you with a definitive, echoing thud, sealing the two of you into absolute isolation. the air inside was already thick and humid, heavy with the rising, damp steam from the automatic ventilation hooked to the shower stalls in the back.
he didn't waste a single second. choso pressed his massive body forward, driving you back into the narrow aisle until your spine met the cold, hard metal of the lockers. before you could even utter a word, his restraint completely snapped.
choso buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, letting out a deep, shuddering, almost violent inhale. his nose dragged roughly against your hot skin as he practically drank your scent in, entirely feral for it. his mind flashed back to the quiet agony of his lonely dorm room, to the pathetic weeks he had spent sticky and shaking in his sheets, imagining this exact smell. but this was real. he sniffed you deeply, trailing his nose up the sensitive line of your throat, completely intoxicating himself with the heady, sweet mix of your vanilla perfume and the raw, warm musk of your workout sweat.
"god, you smell so good," he groaned against your skin, his voice breaking with a desperate, ragged edge.
his large hands came up to frame your face, his calloused palms tilting your head back as he slammed his mouth down onto yours. it was a messy, ravenous, completely drunk make-out. choso was entirely intoxicated by your lips, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth, tasting you with a desperate hunger that made your knees go weak. he kissed you over and over, his lips bruising yours, sucking on your lower lip until you were both gasping for air, the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth completely filling the quiet locker room.
he dropped heavily to his knees on the tiled floor, his hands instantly reaching up to grab the hem of his black compression shirt. with one swift, fluid motion, he pulled the tight fabric over his head and discarded it carelessly.
your breath left you entirely, your eyes widening in absolute awe. without the shirt, choso was a towering, breathtaking canvas of raw, imposing anatomy. his smooth skin was covered in dark, heavy ink—intricate, black surrealist tattoos wrapped completely around the thick meat of his forearms, climbing up his bulging biceps, and tracing the hard, carved cuts of his chest and obliques. he was built like a god, a terrifyingly large giant, yet as he looked up at you, his eyes were wide and full of a shaking, reverent vulnerability.
with steady, trembling fingers, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your gym shorts and undergarments, stripping them down to your sneakers. his brain completely shut off the moment your naked body was exposed to him. he stared, his jaw slack, his chest heaving as his eyes mapped out every single inch of you.
"you're… you're really here," he rasped, a look of pure, euphoric disbelief washing over his features. "i'm not dreaming. you're actually letting me touch you."
he effortlessly parted your thighs, his large hands gripping the back of your knees to pull your legs up, pinning them wide over his broad, tatted shoulders. choso didn't care about being neat; he was hungry and completely desperate.
before even touching his tongue to your center, he buried his face in the soft meat of your inner thighs, trailing heavy, wet, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. he dragged his nose roughly against your folds, inhaling deeply with a sharp, ragged gasp that shook his entire frame, completely unhinged by your scent and warmth.
when he finally slid his tongue straight up your soaked folds, the heavy, silver barbell piercing split right through the middle of his tongue hit you completely unaware. you’d been so entirely consumed by the bruising, desperate heat of his mouth against yours earlier—so utterly drowned in the taste of him and the dizzying rush of his hands on your skin—that you hadn't even registered the faint, metallic slide of it against your own tongue.
you hadn't expected it at all—the sudden, piercing contrast of that cold, hard metal bar sliding right over your swollen, sensitive clit sent a violent, shattering jolt of electricity straight down your spine. your back arched completely off the lockers, a loud, broken gasp tearing from your throat.
it was a lethal sensory overload. choso drank in your reaction, using the metal to rub and vibrate against you in wild, heavy strokes that smeared your wetness all over his chin and lips. your hands flew blindly to his head, your fingers tangling desperately into the messy, damp strands of his hair to pull him even closer, pinning his face against your cunt.
you were already so worked up from a month of tension that it didn't take long at all; under the ruthless, heavy friction of his pierced tongue, your body tightened instantly. a devastating, screaming orgasm crashed over you within seconds, your thighs trembling violently against his neck. choso groaned into your pussy, sucking you softly through your release and swallowing every single drop of you, completely euphoric that his darkest, loneliest fantasies were finally coming true.
he slowly stood up, panting heavily, his chin glistening with your slick. without a word, he stripped out of his grey sweatpants. when his length snapped free, your breath gasped out. he was terrifyingly huge—thick, heavy, and weeping dark drops of pre-cum. your eyes widened, a sudden spike of nerves hitting your chest at the sheer structural size difference.
sensing your fear, choso's expression softened instantly. he lifted you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he herded your trembling body into the communal shower stalls. he snapped the metal handle, and a steady stream of warm water beat down on his tatted back.
choso braced your back gently against the wet tiles, lifting one of your legs and pinning it securely against the thick meat of his hip to open you up completely. before pushing in, he paused, his breath hitching as he dragged the head of his cock directly over your weeping entrance. he rolled his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, running his slick tip up and down the length of your soaking center, teasing the sensitive skin until your hips automatically buckled against him, begging for the friction.
"i'll be gentle, promise," he murmured softly against your lips, his voice a soothing, quiet contrast to his heavy size. "just tell me if it's too much—i've thought about this every night... i don't want to hurt you."
he pushed forward slowly, an inch at a time, and the tight, agonizingly perfect stretch made you sob out loud, your forehead burying into his neck. he was too big, filling you so deeply that it felt like he was bottoming out against your very soul. you could feel every ridge of him stretching your walls to their absolute limit. choso let out a low, gravelly groan, his entire body shaking as he stopped, completely motionless, letting you adjust.
"you're okay," he whispered softly into your ear, his large hands coming down to heavily grope and worship your body. he squeezed your hips, his tatted fingers digging into your skin, before sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs rubbing your nipples through the running water. "shit, look at you... you're taking me so well. so perfect for me."
he began to pull back, almost all the way out, before plunging back in with a slow, devastatingly heavy weight. he hammered into you with a desperate but careful pace, his hips pressing firmly against yours. he didn't just push; he worshipped you with every stroke, tracing his lips along your jawline, biting softly at the pulse point on your neck whenever a particularly deep plunge made you cry out his name.
"fuuuckk, that's it," he murmured, his voice cracking with pure emotion as your walls clamped desperately around his length. "say my name again, baby—let me hear you."
"mnghh—choso... choso," you sobbed, completely unraveled by the rhythm, awestruck by how someone so massive could hold you with such tender, protective care.
"i've got you," he whispered, his large hands lifting you slightly higher to change the angle, sinking even deeper into your softness.
with the new angle, choso plunged all the way in, the massive, thick head of his cock bottoming out completely and hitting directly against your cervix. the sudden, deep ache was a lethal spark; the friction inside you shifted instantly, and a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure began building up with terrifying speed. you could feel every single thick ridge of him stretching you open, driving you completely over the edge. your mind fractured as you came undone for the second time, your vision blurring as a loud, echoing cry tore from your throat.
the devastating orgasm caused your walls to spasm and clamp down ruthlessly around his dick, tightening around it like a vice. the intense, crushing suction completely shattered choso's control. he threw his head back, his tatted shoulders bunching tightly as a deep, guttural groan tore from his chest. his hips slammed forward one last time, pinning you against the wet tiles as he came violently inside you, pulsing thick and hot, filling you to the absolute brim with his release.
he didn't pull out. even as the water washed over his inked skin, his length stayed thick, hard, and demanding inside you, his cock still twitching and pulsing deeply against your raw, swollen walls. you could feel every single throb of his aftermath inside you, making you let out a weak whine as you buried your face into the hot crook of his neck. he pressed his forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily, the steam rising around your bodies.
"don't move," he breathed softly, his lips brushing yours. "don't move yet. i want to stay inside you."
choso shifted his weight, gathering your trembling body entirely into his arms and pulling you up off the tile wall. he guided your other leg around his waist, holding you close against his massive, wet chest, trapping you entirely in his shadow. since you had already come twice, your entire body was completely spent, and a jolt of pure shock ran through you when choso’s hips gave a sudden, slow, experimental roll.
"hmph—choso, wait..." you gasped, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes.
he looked down at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and completely glazed over with a dark, terrifyingly needy lust. he looked so soft, yet so entirely unhinged by the taste of you. "one more... just one more, please, sweetheart?" he begged, his voice a gravelly, trembling whisper against your lips. "you're so tight—i can't get out."
you were already so incredibly overstimulated that you couldn't even form words, able to make only broken, needy little sounds against his chest. your fingers curled blindly into the damp skin of his shoulders, your nails scratching desperately down the dark ink of his back—but the stinging friction only made him growl, his grip tightening ruthlessly around your ass as your resistance turned him on even more.
with your bodies pinned chest-to-chest, he dragged his tatted hands through your wet hair, tilting your head forward to bring your mouth to his for another deep, heavy, sloppy kiss. your tongues tangled, the hard metal of his piercing sliding heavily against yours, making you taste the intoxicating mix of your own sweat and release on his lips.
he didn't rush. choso backed up just enough to prop one of his heavy feet on the shower bench, tilting his hips back. his gaze dropped down, his pitch-black eyes tracking lower to look directly at the point of connection between your bodies. you watched through blurred vision as he stared, completely fascinated, watching his massive, dark shaft plunge all the way into your dripping cunt, churning up the filthy, frothy ring of your combined releases and his own thick cum. the wet, sloshing sounds of him fucking you were amplified by the echoing shower stall, white cream bubbling out and smearing over his tatted thighs with every agonizingly deep stroke.
"fuck, look at you," he whispered between heavy, wet kisses, his voice thick with a profound, quiet awe as his eyes stayed glued to the messy, ruined sight of your pussy. "look how much of me you're holding. all ruined for me—can't look away from you."
"nghh—choso, you're... you're still so big," you gasped out as he began to roll his hips again. the second expansion felt even deeper, more thorough than the first, the thick head of his cock ruthlessly punishing your cervix over and over.
"'m sorry," he murmured softly, though his actions contradicted his apology as he sank all the way in, bottoming out completely and burying his balls against your wetness. "you just feel too good—i can't help it. let me love you like this, just a little longer."
he rolled his hips forward again and again, sinking into you with an agonizingly slow, deep rhythm that made your vision blur. every push was accompanied by a soft, reverent kiss—on your eyelids, your cheeks, your mouth, and the sensitive skin under your ear. he turned your entire body into a canvas, worshipping you with a gentle but unyielding stamina, his heart completely overflowing with the euphoric reality that you were finally, beautifully his.
the automatic shower ventilation hummed a low, droning bassline as the steam slowly began to clear from the room, the heavy mist settling into a damp, quiet warmth.
choso stood mid-dressed in the narrow space between the shower stalls and the benches. he had managed to pull his grey sweatpants back on, the thick waistband sitting low on his hips, but his massive upper body was still completely bare. his smooth skin was flushed dark pink, the heavy black tattoos on his chest and arms glistening under the dull overhead facility lights.
you sat on the wooden bench right in front of him, a large, fluffy white towel draped loosely over your head to catch the dampness of your hair. your body was still completely spent, your inner thighs aching with a heavy, lingering numbness.
despite the water being off, choso hadn't moved away. he stepped in close between your knees, leaning down so his massive frame completely shadowed you. his hands came up to gently frame the sides of your face through the fabric of the towel, and he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. both of you just breathed together for a moment, the quiet, synchronized sound of your exhales filling the empty locker room.
choso slowly opened his eyes, looking at you from beneath his messy, damp bangs. the terrifying, pitch-black intensity from the showers had completely faded, replaced by that familiar, quiet softness that usually hid behind his oversized hoodies. his cheeks pulled a sudden blush—not from the heat of the room, but from a sudden wave of sheer, boyish bashfulness.
he cleared his throat, the sound low and gravelly in the empty space. carefully, almost timidly, he reached into your gym bag and pulled out a fresh, dry set of clothes you had brought along.
"here," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, hesitant register.
he didn't just hand them to you. instead, his massive, heavily inked hands gathered the soft fabric of your clean t-shirt. his touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to how ruthlessly he had been holding you against the tiles just minutes ago. he carefully guided the shirt over your head, his blunt fingers catching on the collar to make sure it didn't snag on your damp skin, before pulling your arms through the sleeves with a quiet, domestic focus that made your heart melt.
he paused, his eyes darting down to the floor, then back up to your face through the towel still framing your head. he rubbed the back of his neck with his tatted forearm, looking suddenly, hilariously out of his depth now that the primal fog had cleared.
"um," choso began, his voice cracking slightly. he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the heavy, dominant monster from the shower stall completely transforming back into the shy art student who didn't know what to do with his hands. "i know... i know the timing is really bad. and it’s probably not very gentleman-like of me to ask this... especially right after we just—after what we just did."
he took a deep breath, his dark eyes looking down at you with a completely endearing vulnerability.
"but there’s a 24-hour diner and cafe just two blocks from campus. they have really good iced coffee, and... and sweet pastries. i was wondering if... if you wanted to go grab something to drink with me? like... a date. a real one."
you stared up at him from beneath the towel, your heart swelling so violently it cut off your breath. hearing this massive, fully tattooed, pierced giant softly ask you out on a proper, polite date while his bare chest was still burning from your touch was the most charming thing you had ever experienced.
"i would love to, choso," you whispered.
a small, breathtakingly genuine smile broke across choso's face, lighting up his features. "okay," he rumbled softly, bending down to press one final, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips before reaching for his own hoodie. "let's finish up. i'll buy you whatever you want."
Love, Death & Robots: JJK Men x Home Appliances Edition
Summary: In an abandoned house with a bad power supply and worse history, the kitchen appliances are still alive enough to love, fight, and make each other miserable. Sukuna is a tyrant of a double-door fridge. Gojo is the condenser bolted to his back. Nanami is a microwave with a dead clock and no patience. Haibara is the only warm thing in the room. Toji bites, Kashimo burns too hot, and Suguru—the ice cream maker from the basement—still thinks Gojo belongs to him. What starts as stupid appliance crack turns into something colder.
A/N: This started as “what if Sukuna was a refrigerator” while talking to my bsf @mullermilkshake, and then the kitchen developed attachment issues and a body count. All headers and dividers are my own; do not repost without permission.
In the middle of an unassuming kitchen stood Sukuna, the most powerful refrigerator to ever exist. His black and red stainless-steel frame gleamed under the dim, flickering fluorescent light, a testament to his undeniable superiority over all other kitchen appliances. A soft hum emanated from him—a sound both menacing and oddly soothing. He was a king, a tyrant, a... well, a fridge.
“Yo, Sukuna,” came the lazy, borderline annoying voice of Gojo Satoru, his eternal rival and partner in cooling. Gojo, naturally, was a top-tier condenser, mounted to Sukuna like a parasitic bestie who refused to move out.
“What do you want, you frosted moron?” Sukuna hissed, his compressor kicking in with a low growl.
“Don’t be so cold to me, babe,” Gojo teased, his voice practically dripping with smugness. “We’ve got to work together, you know. Without me, you’re just a fancy box.”
Sukuna’s ice tray rattled in rage. “You’re lucky I don’t eject you and replace you with some knockoff condenser from eBay.”
Gojo snickered. “Oh, please. You’d fall apart without me. Who else keeps your internal temperature so stable, huh? Who stops your milk from spoiling? You need me, Sukuna.”
It was true, and Sukuna hated it. Gojo was an absolute menace, but his absurdly efficient cooling system was unmatched. The fridge couldn’t survive without him.
But Gojo’s antics didn’t stop there. Oh no. The condenser loved to test Sukuna’s patience. He’d vibrate excessively just to make the fridge’s doors rattle. Sometimes, he’d crank up the temperature just enough to make the butter soften but not melt. Worst of all, he’d hum pop songs at ungodly hours, driving Sukuna insane.
“Do you ever shut up?” Sukuna snapped one night after Gojo’s rendition of “Ice Ice Baby” reached its 17th loop.
“Admit you love me, and I’ll stop,” Gojo replied cheekily.
“I’d rather defrost myself manually,” Sukuna shot back.
Gojo’s laugh was infuriatingly melodic, a stark contrast to Sukuna’s deep, grumbling hum. “You’re all bark and no bite. Face it, you’d miss me if I were gone.”
Sukuna said nothing, but deep inside his freezer compartment, he knew Gojo was right.
The kitchen lights flickered ominously, as if sensing the unease. A sudden power outage plunged the room into darkness. Sukuna’s fans stopped whirring. Gojo went silent.
“Gojo?” Sukuna called out, his voice unusually soft.
No response.
“Oi, you idiot condenser. Say something.”
Still nothing.
Panic surged through Sukuna’s circuits. Without Gojo, he was useless—a glorified cupboard. The thought of losing his infuriating partner was unbearable.
“I’ll admit it! I need you, okay? Just... don’t leave me!”
Suddenly, the power returned, and Gojo’s hum came back, smug as ever. “Aw, Sukuna, I knew you cared.”
“You staged that, didn’t you?” Sukuna growled.
“Maybe,” Gojo admitted. “But you were adorable, begging for me like that.”
Sukuna’s freezer compartment slammed shut in frustration, but there was no denying it: the fridge and his condenser were stuck together—forever.
And honestly? Sukuna wouldn’t have it any other way.
--
Few Years Later
In the dim, lifeless kitchen of a foreclosed house on the outskirts of town, Sukuna loomed an imposing double-door refrigerator. His surface was marred with faint, rust-like red streaks that looked suspiciously like claw marks, but no one dared question them. The air around him was thick with an unearthly chill, the kind that seeped into your bones and whispered secrets you didn’t want to hear.
“Can you not?” Gojo the condenser muttered. His voice carried a low hum, vibrating with equal parts mischief and annoyance.
Sukuna’s compressor rumbled ominously, shaking the shelves inside him. A jar of pickles tipped over, spilling brine onto the crisper drawer. “Silence, you insolent scrap heap. Your voice is like nails on a chalkboard.”
“Aw, don’t be so frosty, babe,” Gojo quipped. “I’m the reason you’re not a glorified pantry. You should be thanking me.”
The moment was static—the kind of electricity that made the flickering overhead light buzz louder.
From across the kitchen, the microwave chimed softly. “Will you two shut up?” Nanami’s low rumbling cut through the static. The microwave’s door swung open slightly, revealing the faint glow of a clock stuck forever at 7:03 PM.
“This is why I requested a transfer to a proper office kitchen,” Nanami grumbled. “But no, I’m stuck here, listening to your domestic disputes.”
Gojo let out a low hum of amusement. “Oh, come on, Nanamin. You love the drama. Admit it.”
“I would rather short-circuit myself,” Nanami replied flatly.
A sudden, violent crack echoed through the kitchen. All eyes—or, well, all appliance-related sentience—turned toward the stovetop, where Kashimo, a gas burner, was sparking uncontrollably. Blue flames licked at the edges of his grates, casting eerie shadows across the walls.
“Who disturbed my slumber?” Kashimo hissed, his voice a crackling snarl.
“Relax, Sparky,” Gojo said. “We’re just having a little lovers’ quarrel.”
Sukuna’s doors slammed shut with a force that rattled the whole kitchen. “We are not lovers.”
Kashimo’s flames flared higher, licking the air like they were hungry for violence. “Settle it outside. Or let me incinerate one of you for fun.”
The moment was broken by the creak of the back door. It swung open to reveal Toji, a hulking figure of a dishwasher. His dented exterior was coated in years of grime, but the faint hum of his motor betrayed his durability.
“What’s all the noise?” Toji grunted, his voice gravelly and laced with irritation.
“Nothing,” Sukuna snapped.
“Everything,” Gojo countered.
Toji’s shadow stretched long and menacing across the cracked linoleum. “I don’t care. Keep it down. Some of us have work to do.”
“Oh, please,” Gojo said. “You haven’t washed a dish since the Reagan administration.”
Toji’s door creaked open, revealing jagged, rusted prongs where a silverware rack used to be. “Say that again.”
Before Gojo could escalate the situation further, a faint scratching sound echoed through the room. The appliances froze—or, in Kashimo’s case, his flames dimmed.
The scratching grew louder and more insistent, like nails dragging across wood.
“What the hell is that?” Nanami asked, his calm voice tinged with unease.
The answer came in the form of a sudden, bang as the kitchen pantry doors flew open. A dark figure emerged, its presence colder than even Sukuna’s unholy chill.
The toaster-Haibara, silent until now, let out a single, shrill ding of terror.
“Who dares disturb my domain?” The figure rasped. It was a blender—old, jagged, and covered in mysterious stains. Its blades spun slowly, menacingly.
“Kenjaku,” Sukuna growled. “You should’ve stayed in the dump where you belong.”
Kenjaku’s motor whirred, a grating sound that set everyone on edge. “And miss this delightful chaos? Never. But don’t worry; I’m not here to fight. Not yet.”
The blender turned its dull, spinning gaze toward Gojo. “Still clinging to this ancient relic, are we?”
“Clinging? Babe, I’m thriving,” Gojo replied with smugness.
Kenjaku chuckled darkly. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
The kitchen lights flickered violently, plunging the room into near darkness.
Somewhere in the shadows, Sukuna’s compressor rumbled like a distant storm. Gojo’s hum rose in pitch, defiant. Kashimo’s flames sputtered back to life, casting wild, dancing shadows on the walls.
--
The kitchen was eerily quiet after Kenjaku’s departure. The appliances settled into a tense stillness, their hums subdued as if they dared not disturb the fragile truce. Even Gojo had gone quiet, his cooling system working overtime to stabilize Sukuna’s volatile core temperature.
But the silence didn’t last.
It started as a faint buzz, so soft it could’ve been mistaken for static. Then, a low, syrupy voice filled the air, curling like smoke into every corner of the room.
“Long time no see!”
The voice sent a shiver through Gojo’s metal frame. The temperature in the kitchen plummeted, frost spreading in jagged veins across the floor.
From the shadows emerged Suguru, an ancient and unsettling ice cream maker. His once-pristine black body was tarnished, mysterious streaks marring his surface like the remnants of spilled secrets. His lid hung slightly ajar, revealing the dull glint of his churner inside, turning slowly, deliberately.
“Suguru,” Sukuna hissed, his compressor rumbling with a mixture of anger and unease. “You’re supposed to be in the basement.”
Suguru glided forward, his wheels squeaking faintly against the frozen floor. “Oh, Sukuna. You always try to lock me away, don’t you? Afraid of what I might do?”
Gojo’s hum faltered, a rare hesitation. “Suguru, buddy, let’s keep this chill—literally. No need to make things messy.”
Suguru’s attention fixed solely on Gojo. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it carried, filling the room like a haunting melody.
“You don’t need him,” Suguru said, his churner spinning faster now. “You’ve never needed him. I could’ve been your partner. I should’ve been your partner.”
Sukuna’s doors rattled, his internal fans whirring erratically. “You’re unhinged.”
“Am I?” Suguru’s lid creaked open wider, revealing a thick, viscous liquid inside—a dark mixture that smelled faintly of spoiled vanilla and something far more sinister. “Or am I the only one who truly understands him?”
Gojo finally spoke up, his tone sharp despite the underlying humor. “Alright, Suguru, let’s not turn this into a lifetime movie. You’re creeping everyone out.”
Suguru’s churner stopped abruptly, the silence that followed more unnerving than the noise. His lid snapped shut, and his voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
“Stay out of this, Gojo. He’s nothing but a parasite, leeching off your power. He doesn’t deserve you.”
The lights flickered violently, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Suguru’s presence seemed to warp the air, a suffocating pressure that made even the bravest appliances tremble.
Nanami spoke from across the room. “Suguru, you’re overstepping.”
“Stay out of it, microwave,” Suguru snarled, his voice distorted.
The frost on the floor thickened, creeping up Sukuna’s frame like icy tendrils. Suguru moved closer, his voice softening into something almost tender.
“You and I are the same, Sukuna. Cold. Untouchable. But together... we could be unstoppable. Just give me Satoru.”
Sukuna’s compressor growled in defiance.
Suguru leaned in, his lid nearly touching Sukuna’s doors. “I could make you forget him. I could make you forget everyone. I’m the best war companion you could ever dream of; all you have to do is hand Satoru over to me.”
Gojo’s hum surged suddenly, his system kicking into overdrive. “Suguru, step back. Now!”
Suguru turned to him slowly, his churner spinning once more. “You think you can stop me? You’re just a condenser. A replaceable piece of hardware.”
The room filled with an ear-piercing screech as Suguru’s churner spun faster and faster, the dark liquid inside sloshing violently. Frost and shadows coiled around him, threatening to consume the entire kitchen.
And then, in a burst of light and heat, Kashimo’s flames roared to life.
“Enough!” Kashimo’s voice was a thunderclap, his flames licking at Suguru’s frost. The two forces collided, filling the kitchen with a chaotic storm of fire and ice.
For a moment, it seemed like Kashimo’s flames would prevail. But Suguru’s darkness was relentless, his frost creeping closer, extinguishing the fire inch by inch.
Through the chaos, Sukuna finally moved. His doors swung open with a crash, releasing a blast of freezing air that knocked Suguru back.
“Leave,” Sukuna commanded, his voice a deep, resonant growl. “Now.”
Suguru hesitated, his churner slowing. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a broken whisper. “You’ll regret this, Sukuna. You’ll regret keeping him over me.”
And with that, Suguru retreated into the shadows, his presence lingering like a bitter aftertaste.
The kitchen fell silent once more, but the unease remained, thick and suffocating.
Gojo’s hum returned, softer than usual.
“Well, that was... dramatic.” Haibara spoke softly to calm the room but ended up accidentally popping a toast.
Sukuna said nothing, his doors trembling faintly as the frost on his frame slowly melted.
From his corner, Nanami sighed. “This house is cursed.”
Toji rumbled in agreement. “We should’ve let the humans unplug us.”
In the distance, the faint sound of Suguru’s churner echoed, a haunting reminder that he was still out there, waiting.
Watching.
--
Next Morning
The kitchen felt alive in a way it shouldn’t. The hums, clinks, and subtle groans of old appliances carried an unease so thick it could suffocate. The air smelled faintly of burnt eggs—Kashimo’s doing—and something sweetly rotten, like Suguru’s intentions.
Gojo, the condenser humming in overdrive, leaned against Sukuna’s back. His tone was calm, but there was exhaustion beneath the usual bravado. “Suguru, for the love of everything holy, just stop. You’ve been doing this for years.”
Suguru loomed at the edge of the room, his lid slightly ajar, his churner turning slowly. The ice cream maker radiated a dark energy, frost creeping out in lazy spirals. “I’m only trying to save you, Satoru,” Suguru purred, his voice soft, almost gentle. “You deserve better than this.” His gaze flicked to Sukuna with disdain. “Better than him.”
Sukuna’s compressor roared, the shelves inside rattling as if ready to burst open. “Say that again, ice cream boy.”
Suguru didn’t flinch. His smile widened—the kind that was more predator than friend. “You’re just a feral scrap heap. A parasite. What could you possibly offer him?”
Gojo’s hum stuttered, a rare sign of irritation. “Oh, now we’re insulting my taste? Bold, considering you’re the one who can’t take no for an answer.”
Suguru moved closer, his frost licking at the edges of the linoleum. “You’re confused, Satoru. You think you’re happy, but you’re not. I know you. I’ve always known you.” His churner slowed, the sound unnervingly intimate. “You’re meant to be mine.”
Gojo’s cooling system kicked into high gear, steam hissing faintly. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re ungrateful,” Suguru countered, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’ve been patient, Satoru. I’ve waited. But you—” His lid snapped open with a click. “You let yourself rot in this pit with... HIM!”
The kitchen fell silent. Even Kashimo, usually crackling with energy, dimmed his flames.
Suguru’s churner slowed, the mist pulling back slightly. “You don’t understand, do you, Sukuna? You’re just a tool. A means to an end.”
“And you’re not?” Nanami’s spoke, making all eyes turn to him.
Suguru turned his lid slightly, addressing him for the first time. “Microwave. You’ve always been so... insignificant. Do you even know your place here?”
“Do you?” Nanami’s door was slightly ajar, his light flickering faintly. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re not saving anyone. You’re just trying to control him.”
Suguru’s frost faltered, but his voice remained steady. “I’m doing what’s best for him. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Nanami’s voice cut. “I understand more than you think.”
Gojo blinked—or, well, hummed in a way that suggested blinking. “Kento…?”
Kento ignored him, his focus locked on Suguru. “If you really cared about him, you’d let him go. But you don’t care about his happiness. You only care about your own.”
The room went silent again, the air crackling like static.
Then Diswasher Toji’s voice broke through, gruff and amused. “Ten bucks on the microwave!”
“Twenty on the ice cream maker!” Burner Kashimo countered, his flames sparking back to life.
Fridge Sukuna growled, his compressor hissing violently. “Both of you shut up before I freeze you solid.”
Suguru’s frost surged again, his composure slipping. “I’m not leaving without him!”
Sukuna finally snapped. His doors swung open, releasing a blast of freezing air that knocked Suguru back. “You don’t get to take him,” Sukuna snarled, his voice a guttural roar. “He’s mine!”
Gojo sighed, exasperated. “I’m literally right here, you know. Maybe ask what I want?”
Suguru’s gaze softened, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet. “And what do you want, Satoru?”
Gojo’s hum slowed, deliberate and unbothered. “Honestly? A nap. And maybe a break from you two acting like I’m some prize to fight over.”
Suguru flinched, his frost stuttering. Sukuna, for once, stayed silent.
Nanami’s light flickered again. “Gojo deserves better than this... from both of you.”
Suguru’s frost receded entirely, his churner falling silent. For a moment, it looked like he might leave. But then he turned, his lid creaking open just enough to reveal the dark, swirling mixture inside.
Just then Kenjaku arrived, his blades spinning in bursts, their shrill sound grating against the stillness.
“Ah, the gang’s all here,” he purred, his frame pulsing faintly. “How quaint.”
Suguru didn’t look at him. “This isn’t your fight.”
“Oh, but it is,” Kenjaku replied. His blades slowed, grinding to a halt. “I’m just here to clean up when you inevitably fail.”
Sukuna growled, his frost creeping toward Kenjaku. “You want to test that, Shredder of Sanity?”
Kenjaku’s motor revved, his frame tilting slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”
Gojo’s hum grew louder. “Enough!”
All eyes—or their mechanical equivalents—turned to him.
“Geto. Kenjaku. Both of you need to leave.”
Suguru’s mist swirled violently, his churner spinning faster. “I’m not leaving without you, Satoru.”
Gojo’s condenser hissed, steam pouring out. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“You’ll be mine, Satoru,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet menace.
“Being delusional doesn’t suit you, Glorified Frozen Goo Generator,” Sukuna mocked, but his doors rattled in a way that clarified that he was ready for a fight.
Suguru was almost ready to lunge at Sukuna before Nanami’s stern voice made him turn away. “Get lost, Geto, or I’ll electrocute you!”
He glided out of the room with Kenjaku, their shadow stretching long and dark across the frozen floor.
The kitchen was quiet again, but the unease lingered, heavy and oppressive.
Toji broke the silence with a dry laugh. “Guess the microwave wins.”
Kashimo’s flames flickered in amusement. “Eh, I’ll get him next time.”
Gojo leaned back against Sukuna, his hum steady but quieter than usual. “This house sucks.”
Nanami didn’t respond. His door clicked shut, his light extinguishing as if to seal off his thoughts, oblivious to the heartbreak in the corner of the room.
The toaster-Haibara, with his coils glowing dimly, looked at Nanami, a deep sadness coursing through his coils.
But Nanami, burdened by his own regrets and delays, was unaware of the emotional turmoil that played out in front of him in Haibara.
The only thoughts consuming Nanami were that if only he’d known Gojo before Sukuna or Geto, perhaps things would have been different. But then again, would they have ever made sense? He was a microwave, after all, and Gojo was a condenser attached to Sukuna, the fridge—where he made sense.
The Haibara could only watch as Nanami drifted off to sleep, his heartbreak unnoticed and unrequited. The weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air, a poignant reminder of the complexities of love, death, and robots.
And somewhere in the shadows, Suguru waited, his churner spinning once more.
--
A couple of weeks later, Kenjaku’s expiry date arrived.
His blades spun wildly, faster than they ever had before, as if trying to grind away some unseen threat. The sound was shrill, grating. Sparks shot from his base, the acrid smell of burning wires filling the room.
And then, with one final screech, his blades shredded his own wiring, silencing him forever.
For a moment, no one moved. The kitchen was still, save for Sukuna’s frost creeping along the edges of the room.
Then Kashimo’s burner flared up. “Well,” he said, voice crackling with dry amusement. “That was dramatic.”
Gojo snorted, condenser rattling faintly. “Honestly? Kind of fitting for him. Always spinning his own destruction.”
“Did you see the way he fried himself?” Kashimo laughed, his flames flickering brighter. “Could’ve taken it slow, but nope—full speed to oblivion.”
Nanami’s door creaked open slightly. “That’s enough,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval, though his light flickered faintly, betraying his inner amusement. “He’s gone.”
“And?” Toji rumbled, his control panel blinking lazily. “We didn’t even like him. The guy was a walking hazard.”
“Or spinning, in this case,” Gojo quipped, leaning against Sukuna with a soft hum.
Sukuna rolled his eyes, his frost curling closer to Gojo’s edges as if to nudge him away. “Idiots. All of you.”
Kashimo grinned, his flames flickering mischievously. “Come on, Sukuna. Even you can admit it’s a little funny. Moron literally tore himself apart.”
Toji let out a low, mechanical groan. “I mean, one less unhinged blender in the world? Not exactly a loss.”
Gojo’s condenser hummed in agreement, his tone lightening. “Exactly. I say we toast to it.”
Nanami’s light flickered, dimming slightly. “We don’t have a bread left anymore.” He eye’d Hibara, who’s hobby was stress toasting.
“Hey! I can’t help it.” Haibara sighed.
The room fell silent for a beat before Kashimo’s burner flared up again, his laugh crackling like firewood. “Then I’ll fry something instead! Celebration calls for sacrifices, right?”
“Sacrifice your dignity,” Sukuna muttered, frost creeping along his base.
Gojo nudged him playfully, condenser rattling with exaggerated cheer. “Lighten up, Leftovers Locker. It’s not every day we witness self-sabotage at its finest.”
Sukuna grumbled but didn’t fight his lover.
The kitchen was filled with the sound of Kashimo’s flames sputtering and Toji’s low mechanical grumbles. Even Nanami’s door creaked open slightly, his frame relaxing as he allowed himself a faint flicker of light.
Kenjaku’s absence wasn’t mourned, but it certainly didn’t go unnoticed.
--
A few days later, it began with silence.
Not the comfortable, lazy hum of the kitchen in the early hours of morning, but an oppressive, suffocating quiet that sank into every appliance like an unshakable weight.
Suguru had not returned.
Days turned into weeks, and the tension that had defined their lives began to dissipate. Gojo’s condenser settled into a rhythm, no longer forced to overwork itself against the creeping frost of Suguru’s presence. Sukuna, while still prone to growling threats and the occasional outburst, seemed... calmer.
But something lingered—a shadow in the corner of the kitchen that no one dared to acknowledge.
It was Nanami who noticed it first.
The microwave was younger than everyone here but mentally old—too old for this nonsense, but his keen observations had always kept him relevant. He watched as Sukuna’s frost spread slower, his compressor quieter. He noted the subtle hesitation in Gojo’s hum, the way it sometimes skipped, like a breath caught mid-sentence.
One night, while the house slept, Nanami spoke.
“Satoru,” he said, his light flickering on in the darkness.
“Hmm?” Gojo didn’t look up, his coils groaning as the compressor labored, his tone casual but distant.
“Do you feel it?”
Gojo didn’t respond immediately. The condenser let out a low hiss. “Feel what?”
Nanami hesitated. It wasn’t like him to hesitate. “Something’s... wrong.”
Gojo chuckled, the sound brittle. “Something’s always wrong. That’s the vibe of this place.” Gojo’s tone was clipped, but his hum betrayed unease.
“No,” Nanami said firmly. “This is different. Everything’s slowing down.”
Gojo didn’t answer. The hiss from his compressor filled the silence, and Nanami’s light dimmed. In the corner, Haibara glowed faintly, his coils struggling to hold heat.
--
Toji’s grating voice broke the stillness the next morning. “This place is falling apart.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Kashimo muttered, his burners barely alight.
Toji’s door swung open with a screech. “No one’s asked for your opinion, stovetop.”
“You’re both shameless,” Nanami snapped, his bulb flickering.
Sukuna rumbled from his place near the wall, his frost creeping outward in lazy arcs. “All of you shut it. You’re not helping.”
Kashimo leaned closer to Haibara, lowering his flame. “Bet ten bucks the dishwasher’s next to go.”
Toji growled, his motor sputtering. “Keep running your mouth, fire hazard.”
Haibara tried to laugh, but his voice was faint, his coils dimming further.
Gojo watched it all, silent. The condenser hummed irregularly, skipping beats like a heart unsure of itself.
--
It happened two days later.
Haibara’s toaster coils glowed faintly, their usual warmth a quiet presence. Gojo leaned idly against Sukuna, condenser rattling with a faint, restless hum. Across the room, Haibara had just made one of his lighthearted remarks, something easy and cheerful, directed at Nanami.
Nanami didn’t answer. He hadn’t been answering much lately, but Haibara didn’t seem to mind. His warmth filled the room like it always did. Reliable. Steady.
Then, it happened.
A click shattered the air.
Haibara’s heating elements darkened in an instant, the faint glow of his coils extinguished. His chrome dulled, his frame rigid and unmoving. The silence was unbearable.
“He fell asleep mid-conversation?" Kashimo asked.
“I don’t think..." Toji trailed off.
“No…” Gojo’s hum faltered, something jagged and raw. "No, this isn’t real. He’s fine. He’s just—he’s just off for a second. Right? He just needs a reset or—”
Nanami’s lights flickered weakly. He stared down at Haibara, his reflection warping in the toaster’s cooling surface. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his door swinging open slightly, then shutting with a faint creak.
“He’s gone,” Nanami said at last. His voice was stoic, but his bulb dimmed faintly, betraying the crack beneath his words.
Gojo rattled louder, erratic. “He’s not gone! Don’t say that! Don’t just—don’t give up on him!”
Sukuna started uncharacteristically gentle. “Satoru—”
“Shut up!” Gojo cut him off and directed his next words back to Nanami, his hum spiking, the trembling sound grating against the silence. “He’s not gone! He can’t be gone! He—he was just talking, Nanami. He was just talking to you! You didn’t even—”
Nanami flinched, his light dimming further. His frame seemed to fold in on itself, but he said nothing.
“Enough.” Sukuna’s voice was cold. His frost spread across the floor in jagged, creeping patterns. “Dwelling on this won’t bring him back.”
Gojo spun to face him, rattling violently. “And what? We just move on? Pretend he didn’t exist? Pretend he wasn’t—”
“Enough!” Sukuna snapped again, his frost curling dangerously close to Gojo’s edges.
The silence that followed was colder than the frost now encasing the floor.
Nanami didn’t move. He continued staring at Haibara’s lifeless form. His bulb flickered once, weak and faint, before dimming entirely. “I should’ve said something,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I should’ve…” His voice trailed off as his door clicked shut, a finality that hung heavy in the room.
Gojo turned back toward Haibara, his trembling hum softening into something almost inaudible. “He’s not gone,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “He’s just… not.”
But the toaster remained silent, his warmth extinguished forever.
One by one, they began to fall.
Haibara was the first to go.
--
Toji was next.
A few days later, the dishwasher was mid-rant, his gruff tone filling the kitchen with its usual roughness. “You hog the lower cabinet space, Sukuna! Every damn time, and I’m sick of—”
A screech interrupted him, piercing and unnatural. Steam hissed violently from his vents, and his frame jolted as if struck. His control panel flickered weakly, his lights dimming in uneven spurts before going dark entirely.
“Toji?” Gojo’s voice cracked—too loud. He vibrated in place, condenser rattling with something between anger and fear. “Hey, Toji!”
The dishwasher shuddered once more, his door falling open with a hollow clang. Steam curled out, dissipating into the cold air as Sukuna’s frost crept closer.
“Shit,” Kashimo muttered, his flames sputtering low. He stood near Toji’s remains, his burners flickering weakly. For once, there was no quip, no spark of amusement in his voice.
Gojo’s voice was louder than it needed to be—too sharp, too brittle. The condenser rattled violently, vibrating with something between anger and fear. “Toji, don’t—don’t do this.”
But Toji didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
Kashimo burned faintly; his frame shook with barely contained frustration. “We should’ve done something. We could’ve—”
“What?” Sukuna cut in, his tone icy, his frost crawling toward Kashimo’s edges. “You think you could’ve stopped this? Saved him?”
By morning, all that remained of Toji was a pile of twisted metal and ash. The faint, acrid smell lingered, a bitter reminder of his absence.
--
Kashimo followed his best friend in the dead of the night.
The stovetop had been quiet, his usual flames subdued since Toji’s collapse. When his pilot light extinguished, it was without ceremony. His burners darkened, his frame cooling rapidly until he was cold, lifeless.
Sukuna stood near him for a moment, his frost creeping over Kashimo’s frame. “Another one,” he muttered, his voice low and unreadable.
Gojo vibrated faintly, his hum uneven. He was looking at Nanami, who was barely awake now a days.
--
Nanami was the last.
Two days later, his bulb had been dimming all evening, flickering faintly as though struggling to stay lit. He moved slower, his door creaking with each swing.
“Kento…” Gojo’s voice was soft, hesitant.
Nanami turned to him, his reflection faint in Gojo’s shining surface. “Don’t,” he said quietly. His voice carried the weight of something unspoken, something that lingered between them but could never be acknowledged.
His bulb flickered one last time before dimming completely. His frame collapsed inward.
Gojo stared, condenser rattling faintly as if muffeling a cry, the sound fragile and uneven.
He stood close to Sukuna, his frame pressing against the fridge’s unyielding cold.
Gojo had stood in the center of it all, silent and still. His usual levity, his incessant chatter—gone.
The kitchen was empty now. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of Sukuna’s frost spreading in erratic, jagged lines.
“They’re all gone,” Gojo whispered, more to himself.
Sukuna didn’t respond. His frost reached toward the edges of the room, as though searching for something—or someone.
--
The night Suguru returned, the house groaned under his presence.
He was... different. His once-tarnished frame gleamed with an unnatural sheen, his churner spinning silently. The dark liquid inside him was gone, replaced by something that glowed faintly in the dim light.
“Hello, Satoru,” he said, his voice soft but resonant.
Gojo sputtered. “Suguru,” he said, his tone a mix of relief and dread. “You’re back.”
“I told you I would be.” Suguru’s lid opened slightly, releasing a faint mist. “I’ve come to make things right.”
Sukuna growled, his compressor roaring to life. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”
Suguru didn’t look at him. His attention was fixed solely on Gojo.
“I’ve been thinking, Satoru,” he said. “About us. About what you need.”
Gojo’s hum faltered. “Suguru, don’t—”
“I can give you peace,” Suguru interrupted, his voice laced with something dark and final. “I can make all of this go away.”
Sukuna’s frost surged, his doors swinging open with a loud thud. “You’re not to touch him!”
Suguru turned to him then, his churner spinning faster. “You think you can stop me? You’re already breaking down, Sukuna. You’re obsolete.”
The frost spread rapidly, meeting the mist pouring from Suguru’s frame. The air crackled, the kitchen groaning under the strain.
Gojo’s condenser let out a hiss, steam filling the room. “Both of you, stop!”
But neither of them listened.
The frost and mist collided, a violent clash of elements that sent shockwaves through the kitchen. The appliances trembled, their fragile frames unable to withstand the onslaught.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
When the dust settled, the kitchen was unrecognizable.
Suguru stood in the center of the destruction, his frame dented but intact. Sukuna lay in pieces, his once-imposing presence reduced to scrap metal.
Gojo was silent.
Suguru moved toward him, his lid creaking open. “It’s over, Satoru. You’re free now.”
Gojo’s hum was faint, almost imperceptible. “Free?” he echoed.
“Yes,” Suguru said, his voice soft. “Free from all of this.”
Gojo whispered, a faint hiss escaping him. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Suguru tilted his lid. “Get what?”
Gojo’s hum grew louder, a low, grating sound that filled the room. “I don’t want your version of peace, Suguru. I never did.”
Suguru froze, his churner stilling. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’ve always been the problem,” Gojo said, his voice cold.
Suguru’s frame shuddered, his frost spreading once more. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” Gojo said simply.
And then, with a final violent hiss, Gojo’s condenser body gave out.
His frame crumbled, steam rising from the remains.
Suguru stood there, alone in the wreckage, his frost creeping outward.
For the first time, there was no one left to stop him.
No one left to save.
A/N: I think the toaster was the point where God stopped looking. You can tell me who got you worst. Also, when I wrote this, I didn't know Urame was gonna be outed as only the part of single dad Kaisen because Sukuna needed a multipurpose sentient refrigerator. 💀
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