─────────────────────────────────── ego - romy mars
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: You hate Toby Rogers. Hate. He’s immature, and whiny, and gets in your way more often than not. Proxies are meant to work together, but you two just don’t. Fights are prone to happen, but when your hands accidentally find his throat, Toby accidentally finds out that he likes it. You hate him. And he hates you. So why can he suddenly not jerk off without thinking about your hands on his neck? Why does he want you to do it again??
✦ . Characters: Ticci Toby x Female Reader, Proxies
✦ . Note: Suprise fic! Please please please mind the tags, there’s a whole lot going on in this story. Yes, this was supposed to be the German Toby fic, but I decided I was too lazy to follow through, so white-boy Toby it is 💔 Nonetheless, please enjoy whiny Toby! I’ve been wanting to make a reader-dominant fic for a while, and I finally got around to it! Happy reading!!
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You hated Tobias Rogers. Hated. Even now.
The lake was so still. The kind of stillness that made the air heavy, as if even the water held its breath in anticipation. Moonlight fractured across the surface in sharp, silver shards, illuminating the awkward shapes of two figures dragging something heavy across the moss-slick ground.
You and Toby.
The corpse hung between you like an anchor, its weight making your arms ache with each step. The smell of damp earth and decay was thick in your nose. Every time Toby shifted his grip, the body smacked against the ground with a dull thud.
“Careful,” you hissed, slipping on a wet root. “It’s not going to sink if you—”
“Maybe if you d-didn’t drop your end every t-two seconds,” Toby grunted, voice muffled under his bulky muzzle, “we’d be done a-al-already.”
You glared, tugging on your end. “Excuse me for not wanting to ruin my boots in swamp water.”
“Oh, right,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping, “because t-this job is about fashion.”
The two of you stumbled to the edge of the shore, shadows from the Slenderwoods curling around you. The trees loomed like sentinels, tall and skeletal, their branches swaying with a sound that was almost a whisper. You hated this place at night—the way the silence seemed alive, watching, waiting. Toby, of course, didn’t seem to care. He didn’t care about anything, as far as you were concerned.
You heaved the body once, twice, then shoved it into the water with a final grunt. It splashed hard, ripples spreading outward until the lake swallowed them whole. You didn’t know the man, didn’t even really care to, it was just another job from the Operator. For a moment, you both just stood there, catching your breath, staring at the dark water as the final inches of the body sunk into the abyss.
“Happy now?” you muttered.
“Real p-pro-professional,” he replied flatly.
Your teeth ground together. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass,” he shot back without hesitation.
The exchange was so familiar it almost felt rehearsed. Every mission ended like this: harsh words, rolled eyes, and the tension of two people forced into each other’s orbit who simply didn’t fit. The only difference is Masky wasn’t here to break it up.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried.
When Slender first made you both proxies, you’d done what Masky and Hoodie told you: learn each other’s strengths, cover each other’s weaknesses, trust is mandatory. And you tried. You really did. But from the very first mission, something had been off.
Maybe it was his immaturity—the way he cracked jokes in the middle of grim work, or the way he blew off orders to do things his own reckless way. Maybe it was your frustration—your need for control clashing violently against his chaos. Every step he took felt like it undermined yours. Every word out of his mouth made your patience snap just a little thinner.
You weren’t blind, though. You saw how efficient he was, how quickly his hatchets moved, how easily he carried violence without hesitation. He was good—annoyingly good. Which made it worse. Because you should have worked well together. You were both proxies, bound to the same faceless master, trapped in the same mansion and forest. On paper, it made sense. In practice? You were oil and water.
Some people just weren’t meant to click.
“Guess we’re d-done here,” Toby muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, the brief flare of orange glow painting his face in harsh lines as he unstrapped his muzzle to take a drag. “W-We’ll never get a-along, will we?”
You gave a humorless laugh, wiping splatters of mud from your jeans. “Not a chance.”
He exhaled smoke into the night, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Fine by me.”
The lake was silent again, just as still as if there wasn’t a body sinking to the bottom now. You turned, hauling back toward the direction of the mansion and away from him, but the walk back was worse than the mission itself. The Slenderwoods closed in on all sides, branches scraping like claws, owls hooting too low, too human. Every shadow moved if you stared too long, but none of that was as grating as the boy trudging a few feet beside you.
“You could’ve at least waited before stabbing him like that,” you grumbled, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill. “The plan was to corner him—”
“The p-plan was slow,” Toby interrupted, his voice sharp and smug. “He was running. I stopped h-him. Problem solved.”
“Problem solved?” you scoffed. “You nearly blew our cover, dipshit. He screamed loud enough to wake the entire county.”
Toby snorted, kicking a stone off the path. “Still got h-him in the end, didn’t we? He’s f-fish food now. You’re welcome.”
You threw him a glare sharp enough to cut. “I didn’t ask you to play hero. There’s a difference between efficiency and being reckless, and you wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face.”
He tilted his head, grinning as he puffed a dark cloud of cigarette smoke towards you. “Guess t-that makes me reckless, then.”
The banter didn’t stop until the looming silhouette of the mansion swallowed you both in its shadow. The Slendermansion sat hunched at the edge of the woods, its black windows like hollow eyes. The air grew heavier the closer you got, as if the walls themselves were listening, feeding.
Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you tossed your gear onto the table in the main hall. The familiar smell of stale smoke, mildew, and faint copper clung to the air, but it was the home you knew. Masky was already there, arms crossed, watching the two of you like a teacher sick of breaking up the same fight between the same students.
“You two done?” Masky asked flatly, eyes narrowing.
“Ask him,” you said at once.
“Ask her,” Toby fired back.
Masky groaned, dragging a hand down his mask. “Every damn time…”
From the couch, Hoodie let out a quiet snicker without looking up from his notebook he was sketching in. He never interfered much, but the slight shake of his shoulders told you he found your constant arguments entertaining. Infuriatingly entertaining.
Kate was sprawled in one of the armchairs, cleaning one of her knives with a rag. She raised her eyes just long enough to catch the tail end of your glare-and-growl routine. “You both need to grow up,” she said bluntly.
You opened your mouth to protest, but Toby beat you to it. “I a-am grown up,” he said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, flicking the final ashes from his cigarette onto the grimy floor before tossing it.
Kate arched a brow. “Mhm.”
You smirked at that, but it only lasted a second before Toby turned his mockery back on you. “D-D-Don’t get too fuckin’ cheeky—you’re not e-exactly winning any maturity awards e-either.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Says the guy who nearly fucked up tonight’s mission by charging in like a bulldozer.”
“And you would’ve l-let him get away while you m-made a speech ab-about ‘proper execution,’” Toby countered, mimicking your voice in a whiny falsetto that made Hoodie snort louder.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, throwing yourself into the opposite armchair with a huff.
Masky’s sigh was sharp, final. “I don’t care how you got it done. The point is, it’s done. Next time, don’t cause such a fuss and just get the damn thing over with.”
The words settled between you like a warning. But even warnings didn’t last long in this house. The air was too thick, the walls too close. You felt Toby’s eyes on you from across the room, smug, as if he’d won something.
You looked away first.
And that was the problem. Around Masky, Hoodie, and Kate, you could breathe. The dynamic worked. Missions went smoothly enough. The mansion felt tolerable, almost like a twisted version of family. But with Toby? It was always barbed words, tense silences, and the gnawing thought that you’d never, ever get along.
And yet… you were stuck together, whether you liked it or not.
── .✦
Life in the mansion was cramped, but not in the physical sense. The house itself stretched wide and tall, with too many rooms, too many halls that seemed to change direction when you weren’t looking. Space wasn’t the problem. People were. Or more specifically—Toby.
Morning started with a fight more often than breakfast.
You were standing in the kitchen, half-awake, nursing a chipped mug of bitter coffee when Toby barreled in, raiding the cabinet like a raccoon.
“Did you ta-take the last of t-the cereal?” he asked, voice scratchy from sleep.
“No,” you said, sipping slowly. “Kate did yesterday.”
Toby pulled the box down anyway, stared at the empty bottom, and turned on you. “So you k-knew and didn’t say an-anything?”
“Not my job to babysit your stomach,” you said dryly, turning your back on him.
By the time he stomped off, Hoodie was already leaning against the doorway, watching the exchange like it was a morning sitcom rerun. He muttered something about “placing bets next time” before pouring his own coffee and disappearing.
Later, it was weapons.
You had your knives laid out on the coffee table, sharpening them methodically, when Toby came over and plucked one up without asking.
“Don’t touch my stuff.”
“Relax,” he said, flipping the blade in his palm. “I was j-just looking.”
“Looking with your fingerprints all over it,” you snapped, snatching it back.
Masky’s sigh from the couch was loud enough to shake the windows. “I swear, it’s like living with children.”
Kate didn’t even look up from the book in her lap. “That’s because it is.”
Toby threw his hands up. “What, so s-she can throw a fit but I’m the p-problem?”
“Yes,” Kate and Masky said in unison. You couldn’t help smirking at that.
Dinner was the worst.
The table was long enough for space, but somehow you and Toby always ended up across from each other. Tonight it was stew—Masky’s attempt at “normalcy,” though the meat was questionable at best. You didn’t eat together often, but it was a joint effort when you did.
“Don’t hog the b-bread,” Toby said, reaching across the table.
“I’ve had one piece,” you shot back, yanking the plate closer.
He lunged, you pulled away, and in the struggle the whole loaf toppled onto Hoodie’s lap. He froze, staring down at the mess, then at both of you with the slow, simmering irritation of a man two seconds from throwing something heavy. Kate snorted. Masky pinched the bridge of his nose.
Slender wasn’t around much, but you sometimes wondered if he kept you two paired just for his own amusement. Because every day, it was something. The fights were never big enough to break anything, never serious enough to leave bruises. But they stacked. They simmered. They filled the halls like static, humming between every word and every glare. And yet, for all the irritation, all the arguments, neither of you ever walked away for long. Missions still got done. The mansion still ran. Somehow, despite it all, the two of you stayed orbiting each other—gravitational pull you couldn’t escape, even if you wanted to.
── .✦
It was one of those heavy, still evenings where the Slenderwoods felt closer than usual. The air smelled like damp pine and smoke, a thick fog mist rolling over the dense grass underfoot. You and the others sat out on the creaking porch, ashtrays cluttered between boots and half-empty bottles of water. Masky smoked slow and deep, his mask balancing on the top of his thigh as he leaned back onto the wooden seat. Kate leaned back against the railing, picking at the chipping paint on the wood, eyes sharp but distant. Toby sat a little too close to you, tapping his leg like a drumbeat you couldn’t ignore.
You lit your own, trying not to acknowledge him, exhaling a sharp cloud into the humid night.
“So…” Toby finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Anyone e-else notice she always steals the li-lighter first?”
You shot him a look. “I do not.”
“Shut up, boy.” Masky started.
“Yeah, you do,” he said, grinning beneath the thick goggles that he had pushed up into his hairline. “It’s l-like a compulsion or something.”
“Or maybe you’re just too slow to keep track of your things,” you fired back.
Masky groaned low under his breath, muttering something that sounded like not this again. Before the argument could spiral, Hoodie pushed open the porch door and stepped outside, tucking his notebook into his jacket. His voice cut through the quiet with the weight of a dumbbell on your chest. “New mission,” he said simply.
Everyone straightened.
“All of us?” Masky asked.
Hoodie nodded. “Yeah. Orders came down. Tonight.”
The group exchanged looks. Missions that required everyone weren’t common—they usually split duties to keep the mansion covered. When all five were pulled, it meant something bigger, something messier.
“Guess family outing it is,” Kate said dryly, dumping her ashtray onto the gravel siding below.
── .✦
When darkness settled fully, the mansion stirred alive. Boots thudded against wood floors, gear clinked against belts, and weapons gleamed under dim light. Everyone had their rituals: Masky checked his sidearm three times at least, Hoodie adjusted straps across his chest, Kate wiped down her blade a final time. Toby spun his hatchets between his fingers like a magician showing off. You rolled your eyes and double-checked the knives at your thigh. The air was thick with anticipation.
The pickup truck waited outside, dark paint faded from the sun, battered, and smelling faintly of gasoline and smoke. Masky slid into the driver’s seat without a word, Hoodie riding shotgun as he pulled up the map on his cracked cellphone.
That left the back.
You climbed in, immediately pressed against the left side. Toby hopped up on the right, his knee bouncing instantly like he was vibrating with restless energy. Kate sighed and planted herself squarely between the two of you, arms crossed, glaring dead ahead through the windshield. The truck dipped and squeaked on its hinges are you all settled in, then rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the black woods.
It only took a few minutes before Toby started.
“You’re sitting t-too close,” he muttered.
“I’m not even near you,” you said flatly.
“You do-don’t need that m-much space.”
“You don’t need to breathe, but here we are,” you shot back.
Kate’s elbows shot out, hitting both of your ribs at once. “Shut up. Both of you.”
You winced, rubbing your side. “Ow—”
“Don’t tempt me to hit harder,” Kate warned, eyes forward.
Masky’s voice floated back from the front seat, dripping with amusement despite himself. “This is going to be a long drive. Quit fighting and occupy yourselves.”
Hoodie didn’t even look up from the map. “Longest one yet.”
The engine hummed, the woods blurred past, and the truck rolled deeper into the dark. Despite Kate’s solid wall between you, you could still feel Toby’s presence—like static in the air, buzzing just out of reach. And you hated how much you noticed it.
── .✦
The truck rattled down the backroads for nearly an hour before Hoodie finally spoke.
“Target’s in the clearing past Miller’s Gorge,” he said, tapping the map image across his phone screen. “Couple of locals have been sniffing around the woods, talking about setting up cameras, trying to ‘catch something.’ Boss wants them gone one way or another.”
Kate exhaled a sharp breath. “So like, wannabe monster hunters.”
“Exactly.” Hoodie’s voice was calm but clipped. “They’ve already posted online. If they get anything solid, Slender won’t be happy. This isn’t one we can take half-measures with. We need it erased.”
Masky grunted. “So we wipe the whole camp.”
“Why all of us?” you asked, leaning forward from the back.
“Because there’s at least five of them,” Hoodie replied. “Armed. And cautious. Not idiots out for ghost stories—people who want proof. People who will fight back. They apparently realize that the stuff they’re hunting is more than just ghosts.”
The weight of his words settled in the truck. Everyone went quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and Toby’s restless knee bouncing against the truck bed.
“Should b-be fun,” Toby muttered.
── .✦
When the truck finally rolled to a stop, the woods were suffocatingly dark, thick with crickets and the distant sound of running water. Masky killed the headlights, and everyone piled out, boots crunching softly against dead leaves.
The air was tense but focused. The group fanned out at the tree line, eyes scanning the faint glow of campfire in the distance. Voices drifted—male, confident, laughing, the kind of laugh people made when they didn’t know what waited for them.
Masky handed out orders quietly. “Pairs. Hoodie with Kate. I’ll take her. Toby—” He paused, as if even he hated saying it. “You circle wide and cut off any stragglers.”
Toby scoffed. “Solo? Figures.”
“No one wants to deal with your noise,” Kate said bluntly, earning a sharp laugh from Hoodie.
Toby shot her a look, but Masky had already moved, tilting his head toward you. “Stay sharp.”
You fell in beside him easily. Working with Masky was… natural. His movements were measured, precise, and he didn’t waste time on unnecessary words. You mirrored his pace without thinking, both of you flowing silently through the trees like you’d trained together for years. Every signal he gave, you read instantly. Every shift you made, he accounted for. It was seamless.
Behind you, faintly, you heard the sound of Toby muttering curses under his breath as he hacked through brush on his solo path. You didn’t have to see him to know he was irritated.
Masky glanced your way briefly, as if he could read your thoughts. “Ignore him.”
You smirked faintly. “That’s the plan.”
Together, you and Masky reached the edge of the camp without a sound. You crouched low, watching the five men move lazily around the fire, rifles slung across the backs of their folding chairs, a camera rig propped against a log. Beer cans were littered everywhere, dozens of containers of eaten food and trash on the forest floor between their tents. They were unprepared.
Masky leaned close, voice low. “On my signal, we take the two closest. Hoodie and Kate will flank right. Toby will cut off anyone who runs.”
You nodded, knives already loose in your grip. The firelight flickered across the blades, and the thrill of the hunt tingled in your chest.
For the first time all night, you felt steady. Focused. Like the tension from the mansion and the truck ride had melted away into clarity. This—this was what you were good at.
Masky snapped his fingers, the unspoken signal.
The campfire crackled, throwing lazy sparks into the night. The men didn’t know they were being watched. Didn’t know that five shadows had slipped into their circle of light like wolves closing in.
Masky moved first. His pistol coughed quietly through the silencer, a muted pop, and the man nearest the fire slumped forward without a sound. At the same time, Hoodie slipped behind the next, arm locking around his throat, blade pressing in until the man’s gurgle faded. Kate was quicksilver, gliding from shadow to shadow before sinking her knife between ribs and twisting, her target crumpling into the dirt while her hand held tight over his gaping mouth. You were already in motion, your knives flashing as you closed the distance. Your target barely had time to look up before you drove steel across his throat. Hot blood spilled, spraying across the fire, sizzling as it hit the flames. You let him drop, pulse steady, breathing smooth.
It was clean. Precise. The four of you moved like clockwork.
Then a shout split the clearing.
You spun, heart lurching, eyes scanning. One of them had bolted—no, not bolted. He’d seen and decided to fight back. Toby’s voice rang out through the trees, strained, guttural. “Got one!”
Through the smoke, you saw him—locked in a brutal struggle with the biggest of the group. Broad-shouldered, stronger than the others, swinging wild fists that clipped Toby’s jaw and nearly sent him sprawling. Toby snarled, teeth bared beneath the thick muzzle, trying to drag the fight into control, but the man was too strong, too desperate. Toby couldn’t feel the punches that were thrown, but they still jarred him nonetheless.
Without thinking, you darted forward. You grabbed the hunter by the collar and yanked him backward off Toby, the two of you wrestling him to the ground. Your knee pressed into his chest, pinning him just long enough to shout—
“Get up! Now!”
Toby staggered to his feet, hatchet already in his grip. His chest heaved, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wild and bright. He didn’t hesitate.
The hatchet swung.
It sank into the man’s skull with a sickening crunch, the force so hard it sprayed hot blood across your face, soaking into your shirt, spattering down your arms. The warmth hit before the shock did.
You gasped, jerking back in disgust. “Toby!”
He yanked the hatchet free, crimson dripping down the blade, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. For a second, he looked almost proud of himself.
“You—you just—” You swiped at your face, smearing blood across your cheek. “Are you serious?!”
“What?” he said, shrugging like he hadn’t just drenched you. “I-It worked.”
You stared at him, mouth open, hands sticky with blood. “You could’ve aimed! You could’ve waited until I—”
“There wasn’t time!” he shot back, bristling. “He was go-gonna throw you off. I finished i-it!”
“Finished it? You fuckin’ soaked me with it!” Your voice cracked, frustration boiling over. Blood dripped down your face, sticky, hot, stinking of iron. And Toby just stood there, smug behind his mouth guard, hatchet still wet, staring you up and down.
That was it. You lunged at him.
“HEY—” he barked, staggering back as you grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and slammed him into the dirt. You smeared bloody hands across his face, dragging thick crimson streaks down and across his eyes.
“There!” you spat, shoving harder. “How do you like it?”
Toby snarled and shoved back, the two of you tumbling into a heap of thrashing limbs. He rolled, trying to pin you, but you twisted, fist snapping across his jaw. The crack of impact echoed, sharp in the clearing.
“You’re insane!” he growled, throwing a hand that glanced off your shoulder.
“I’m insane?” you shouted, driving your elbow into his ribs. “You’re the one who—”
The words cut off when you shoved your hands to his throat, pinning him to the ground as he tried to sit up. Your fingers locked tight, squeezing hard. His body bucked beneath you, hatchet clattering out of his grip as he clawed at your wrists.
“Get—off—” he choked, his voice rough, broken. His head thrashed in the dirt, but your grip only tightened. The blood smeared across both of you now, sticky and warm, the world narrowing to the sound of his ragged gasps and the hammering of your pulse.
“Dammit!” Masky barked from somewhere beyond. “Enough!”
Kate’s voice cut sharper. “You’re gonna kill each other!”
But you didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until you felt his pulse falter beneath your palms, until his eyes widened—not with anger, not with panic—but something else.
Something strange.
Toby’s body trembled, his breath stuttering under your hands, but instead of pure desperation, there was… heat. A rush. A dizzying flood through his veins that wasn’t entirely fear. He should have been furious, terrified, clawing harder. But as your fingernails dug into his skin and the world blurred at the edges of his vision, something dark curled inside him. Something you could physically see stirring in him.
“You’re…crazy…” he rasped, the grip of your wrists faltering as his eyelids began to flutter. You felt your heart skip, but it wasn’t enough to register, not when Masky and Kate were on you in a second.
“Enough!” Masky barked, grabbing you by the shoulders and hauling you backward with a force that made your chest wrench from Toby’s throat. Kate shoved between the two of you, her knife still tight in her hand, eyes blazing.
“Are you out of your mind?” she snapped at you. “You’re both fucking children.”
You jerked in Masky’s grip, still seething, still tasting the heat of rage in your mouth. “He’s a fucking idiot!”
Toby rolled onto his side, coughing, ragged gasps rattling out of him. One hand clutched at his throat, the other dug into the dirt, nails carving furrows. Blood was smeared across his face, his hoodie, everywhere—but he wasn’t looking at you, only at the ground beneath him.
For the first time since you’d known him, Toby was silent.
No muttering. No insults. No half-crazed laughter at your expense. Just… silence. He sat up slow, pulling the mouth guard back into place, eyes fixed somewhere past you all. When he stood, it was without a word. He brushed dirt off his hoodie, hatchet hanging limp in his hand, and started toward the edge of the clearing.
“Toby,” Hoodie called after him, tone sharp, warning. But Toby didn’t answer. Didn’t even look back.
The rest of the night crawled like rot under the skin.
You all worked the scene in tense, heavy silence—dragging bodies, dousing blood with gasoline, scattering ash into the brush. Every now and then you caught a glimpse of Toby through the smoke, his shoulders hunched as he hacked the bodies into smaller pieces to fit into the bonfire you were throwing them into, his jaw clenched tight. No jokes. No muttered complaints. Just methodical, mechanical movements.
When you stripped out of your bloodied shirt near the stream nearby, scrubbing your arms raw in the freezing water, you could feel his eyes burning into your back from across the bank. Not glaring. Not mocking. Just… watching. Quiet.
By the time you trudged back to the truck, smelling of iron and smoke and death, Masky was rolling his eyes, muttering about “immaturity.” Kate looked like she wanted to strangle the both of you herself. Hoodie, as usual, said nothing—just kept his cigarette glowing, eyes narrowed.
But Toby? He climbed into the bed of the truck without a sound, hatchet propped against his knee, gaze fixed on the passing trees.
The silence pressed down heavier than the arguing ever had. And the longer it stretched, the more you hated it.
── .✦
The week that followed felt… off.
Toby didn’t pick fights. Not even little ones. Not the tiny jabs that had been part of your daily rhythm—the back-and-forth you’d grown used to, the words that always bounced off walls like sparks. He moved through the mansion like a ghost, quiet, methodical, focused only on smoking, weapons, and missions.
When he did speak, it was clipped, necessary. Orders, reports, directions—never aimed at you. His eyes flicked past, not meeting yours. You caught him glancing at you once or twice when he thought you weren’t looking, but it was fleeting, and every time the sight made your stomach tighten with a strange mix of satisfaction and unease.
The bruises on his throat were obvious even if you didn’t look close. Dark purple and angry against the pale skin, fading slowly but leaving deep, persistent marks. You’d caught him passing in the hallway once and remembered the weight of your hands around him, the raw heat of adrenaline and anger. A pang of guilt twisted in your gut—you’d let him get to you—but alongside it, a sharper, quieter thrill: for the first time, you had one-upped him. You had won.
At first, that smugness warmed you. You told yourself you’d earned it. You replayed the moment in your head, felt the power, the control. Toby hadn’t laughed at you. Toby hadn’t mocked you. He hadn’t even argued. For once, the scales had tipped.
But the relief didn’t last.
Toby didn’t bounce back. Not like every time before. The chaos that had defined him—the relentless teasing, the petty fights, the fire in his voice—was gone. He didn’t sneak into the kitchen and steal your lighter just to rile you. He didn’t flick ash onto your boots and smirk. He didn’t mutter under his breath or make jokes you’d spend the day wanting to punch him for.
The absence was strange. Hollow.
By the third day, it felt almost wrong. The mansion, which had been loud and infuriating, was quieter than it had ever been with him there. You realized you had grown used to his presence—not the violence, not the chaos itself, but the rhythm of it. The constant tension that had made your skin crawl was now a kind of anchor, a pulse you hadn’t realized you relied on.
And now? It was gone.
Every time you passed him in the halls, your chest tightened. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wouldn’t speak. He didn’t react to your snide comments or half-hearted insults. You felt a creeping, uncomfortable feeling settle over you. Part guilt. Part frustration. Part… longing? The tension, the conflict, the constant sparring—it had been exhausting, yes. But now, without it, you were left staring at a quiet, withdrawn version of the boy who had once been the most unpredictable part of your day.
The deeper the week stretched on, the more you realized that what you’d thought was triumph had turned into something else entirely: a slow, gnawing emptiness.
You had won the fight. But you might have lost him.
But you should be happy… right?
── .✦
Another mission order came in from Slender. You were checking your gear in the corner of the mansion’s main hall when Hoodie appeared, silently sliding a small pack over his shoulder.
“You’re with me on this one,” he said, voice low, precise, as always.
You nodded, hefting your own weapons, already going through mental checklists. This was routine. Simple. Easy. Comfortable.
Then the door creaked, and Toby stepped in. You froze—just a little. The mansion felt a little smaller with him there. He moved quietly, deliberately, but there was an edge to his posture you hadn’t seen since… that fight.
“I should g-go,” he said.
Your hands stopped mid-adjustment, eyes darting to Hoodie.
“You?” Hoodie asked, brow raised, tone careful. “Like… you two?”
Toby didn’t answer at first. He just leaned against the doorway, faint shadows under his eyes, arms crossed. Then he met Hoodie’s gaze, and there was… determination there. A quiet insistence.
“I’ll handle it,” Toby said. “I need t-to go. Need to get o-out of the house.”
You blinked. Dumbfounded. Alone… with me? Your chest fluttered with a mix of nerves, disbelief, and something else you didn’t want to name yet. You stared at him, really stared, and realized the bruises on his throat were almost gone—just faint traces of pink fading into pale skin.
You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair. “It’s alright,” you said, finally. “I can go with him.”
Hoodie’s eyes shifted between the two of you, expression unreadable. Then he let out a long, resigned sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “But try not to kill each other before you even get there.”
Toby didn’t say anything to you immediately. He just stepped aside, giving you a narrow space to move past him. And then—your eyes met his for the first time all week. No words. No sarcasm. No fights. Just a look that was sharp, quiet, heavy. There was something in it—curiosity, tension, and maybe the barest trace of acknowledgment
You swallowed. He didn’t look like the Toby who laughed at your every irritation or goaded you endlessly. He looked… different. Still the same chaotic energy under the surface, but tempered. Careful. Watching. Waiting.
You nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He nodded back, then stepped out together into the night. The mansion grew smaller behind you, the faint glow of lights fading, and suddenly, the woods felt wider, quieter, trapping the two of you together.
After the mansion had long disappeared behind the two of you, you tried to break the silence first. “So… you actually decided to acknowledge me. Must be a full moon or something.”
Toby glanced at you briefly. A slow, measured nod. “Yep.”
You frowned, adjusting your grip on your pack slung over your shoulder. “And… you’re not going to pick a fight, bark something sarcastic, or pretend you’re better than me this time?”
Another nod. Short, clipped. “Nope.”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Wow. Silent Toby. Real terrifying.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance your way. Just kept moving as you followed behind. The tension built like static. Every step you took felt heavier, filled with the weight of all the words unsaid between you. The heat of your own irritation grew, but it was tangled with something else—something that made your stomach twist and pulse.
Time passed, and you knew you were close to your destination when the scent of musk travelled around you.
“You know,” you muttered, testing the waters again, “we could at least plan this out before running in there and—”
But he didn’t wait for a reply. Not really. He veered slightly off the path, silent and purposeful, already moving ahead toward the dark silhouette of the warehouse you were assigned.
Your jaw tightened. “Seriously?” you snapped under your breath, jogging to catch up. “Do not pull this shit, Toby.”
He didn’t look back. Just a brief flick of the head, a nod toward the structure. No words. No argument.
The warehouse loomed as you reached the clearing—old, corrugated metal walls rusted, shadows pooling in every corner. Faint light spilled from windows shattered long ago, revealing crates stacked in uneven towers. The smell of damp wood, oil, and smoke drifted out to meet you. Someone had set up shop here, smugglers taking advantage of the abandoned structure, thinking no one would come. Unluckily, it was stirring commotion in the Slenderwoods, so they had to be rid of.
You stopped just outside, lowering your weapons slightly. “Okay. So—”
Toby was already moving. Hatchets swinging low in his grip, steps silent as he circled the side entrance, scanning, analyzing, slipping into shadows like he owned the place.
Your irritation flared. “I said we should plan—”
No response.
You ground your teeth. He didn’t even acknowledge your words beyond a brief nod to indicate he’d seen you. The careful, silent Toby—the one who had stopped fighting with you, stopped talking to you altogether—was moving without you, ignoring every attempt at control, ignoring the chaotic rhythm you had always relied on when paired.
And somehow, that made you feel even tenser than a shouting match ever could.
The warehouse groaned under its own weight as you slipped inside, shadows thick and stale air heavy with oil and dust. Somewhere deeper in the building, muffled voices echoed—low, muttering, careless. The smugglers thought they were safe.
You crouched low, pressing into the dark, and flicked a look toward Toby, ready to signal how to split. But he didn’t wait. He was already moving, sliding between stacks of crates and disappearing from your sights.
Your jaw clenched. Fine. You’d adapt.
The first smuggler came into view around the corner, cigarette ember glowing as he leaned against a crate. You tightened your grip on your knife and slid closer, focusing on quieting your movements, heart syncing with your breath—
—but Toby slipped in from the opposite side faster than you could realize. His hatchet rose and fell before you could reach striking distance, and the man dropped in silence, cigarette rolling across the floor as blood sputtered from his throat. He couldn’t even scream.
You froze, teeth grinding.
Really?
Shoving down the irritation, you darted toward the next shadow—another guard, pacing near the stairwell. You timed it, waited for him to turn, and lunged—
—but Toby’s arm shot out, shoving you back against a crate. You caught yourself with a hand before you made noise, eyes blazing as you turned on him—only to see him already driving into the man’s spine. The smuggler collapsed at his feet, blood seeping into the concrete. Toby held his mouth to keep him quiet, but the wretched coughing still echoed slightly.
Your pulse spiked hot. “What the fuck—” you hissed low.
Toby only gave a short glance, then moved on. No words. You stalked after him, every nerve on fire. This wasn’t an accident. He was cutting you off, stealing every strike, sliding into your space just a second before you could land it.
Another smuggler. Another opportunity. You adjusted your grip, prepared to move.
And then your foot hooked on something.
You stumbled, catching yourself on a crate with a dull thud. Looking down, you saw it—Toby’s boot had slid out at the last second, tripping you. He didn’t even look back, just stepped in and slit the throat of the smuggler you’d been aiming for.
Hot rage seared through you.
This wasn’t clumsy overlap. This wasn’t the two of you failing to mesh. No. This was intentional. Toby wasn’t just ignoring you anymore—he was playing with you. Undermining you. Pushing you, tripping you, cutting you off, every move designed to make you burn hotter, to make you snap.
The warehouse was a graveyard of broken bodies by the time you and Toby pushed deeper inside. Crates stood like crooked tombstones, the smell of blood thick and metallic in the air. Your knife hand ached from clutching tightly for too long, but not from use—because every time you moved in, Toby was there first. Every time you breathed, he was already cutting the air ahead of you.
You were shaking with it now. Rage crawling under your skin like fire ants.
It wasn’t just that he was faster. It wasn’t just skill. No—he was watching you. Waiting for you. Moving not around you, but through you. Blocking, tripping, shoving. Every chance you reached for a kill, his hatchet stole it from your grip at the very last second. And he knew. God, he knew.
The bastard was doing it on purpose. You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw hurt. Your breath sawed in and out, shallow, furious, your chest tight with the effort of holding yourself back. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if words or a scream would come out.
Then you reached the last room.
The final smuggler was cornered near a busted loading dock door, fumbling with a pistol in shaking hands. His eyes went wide at the sight of you both, the whites bright in the dim light. Your grip tightened on your knife. Yours. This one is yours.
But Toby moved. Of course he did. He strode forward with that same unnerving calm, hatchet gleaming, as if this was just another tally mark to add to his collection. He didn’t even look at you as he raised his arm, claiming the kill before you could take a step.
Something inside you snapped. Before he could swing, you hurled your knife.
The blade hissed through the air, so close you heard the whisper of it graze Toby’s hoodie as it buried itself in the smuggler’s torso. The man crumpled with a strangled gasp, blood pooling as your knife jutted from his ribs. He was already dead by the time he hit the floor.
Silence rang out for a heartbeat. Then Toby turned. Slowly.
His head cocked, hair falling into his face, eyes burning from behind his goggles. His voice came low, rasping, edged like broken glass. “You almost h-hit me.”
“Good!” you exploded, stomping forward, your voice shaking as it poured out of you. “I should’ve aimed for you instead!”
His chest rose and fell, ragged. “What t-the fuck is yo-your problem?”
“You’re my problem!” you spat, closing the distance until you were nearly nose-to-nose. Your finger jabbed hard against his chest, smearing blood into the fabric. “You won’t stop. You cut me off, you trip me, you push me out of the way like I don’t matter!”
He shoved your hand away, heat sparking in his tone. “You don’t g-get it, do you? You ne-never fucking get it.”
“Oh, enlighten me then!” You threw your arms out, voice bouncing off the metal walls. “What exactly am I missing? That you’re such a big man because you can steal kills out from under me? That you think you’re the only one who knows what the hell they’re doing?”
Toby’s hands curled into fists, shoulders tense, body vibrating with contained rage. “You think t-this is about y-you?”
You laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “It’s always about me when you make it this way!”
His chest heaved as he stepped closer, hatchet still gripped in his hand though lowered, his voice raising to match yours now. “Maybe if y-you weren’t so busy proving yo-yourself every goddamn second, I-I wouldn’t have to clean u-up your me-messes!”
You shoved him hard, your palms slamming against his chest. He staggered a step but didn’t fall, coming back twice as hot, his own shove rattling your teeth as you stumbled back against a crate.
“Mess?!” Your voice cracked, raw with fury. “You’ve been sabotaging me since the second we stepped in here, and I’m the mess? You think I can’t see what you’re doing?”
Toby’s laughter broke then—sharp, ragged, almost unhinged, though there was no humor in it. He dragged a hand across his face, shaking his head. “You’re s-so goddamn blind.”
“Oh, screw you—” You lunged, shoving him again, and this time he grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward until your faces nearly collided. You could feel his breath hot against your cheek, could see every drop of blood spattered across his muzzle.
The room buzzed with it—your rage, his heat, the echo of all that pent-up chaos finally unleashed. The fight wasn’t about the smugglers, wasn’t about the mission. It was about the two of you, about everything that had burned too long without a spark to ignite it. And now, you were both on fire.
Toby’s grip on your wrist tightened, and before you could wrench free, you shoved him hard into another crate. The metal screeched as it shifted under his weight. He snarled and came back at you, tackling you full-force. You both went down hard, the concrete jarring every bone in your body. His hatchet skittered away with a clatter, forgotten in the heat of the struggle. You clawed at his hoodie, slamming your knee up to catch his ribs, and he grunted, twisting to roll you beneath him.
“Why now?!” you shouted, your voice tearing raw through your throat as you shoved at him. “Why the fuck this week, Toby?!”
His laugh came cracked, bitter, his breath hot against your face as he pressed you down. “Why do y-you care? You liked it better w-when I shut the hell u-up, right?!”
You twisted, bucking your hips, flipping the both of you onto your sides, rolling across the dirt-stained floor. Broken glass scraped your palm, but you didn’t let go. “You didn’t speak to me for days—nothing! Then suddenly you just have to come with me? Just so you can trip me and screw me over?”
He gritted his teeth, voice rough, guttural. “M-Maybe I wanted t-to see how you’d h-handle it. Maybe I w-wa-wanted to see you squirm for once.”
Rage spiked through you, sharp and white-hot. You slammed your elbow into his chest, forcing him onto his back. He gasped, coughing, but his hands were still at your arms, nails biting.
“Is this payback?” you snarled, your breath coming ragged. “For me choking you out? You sick little shit—you couldn’t just say something, you had to do this? Are you fucking five years old?”
He bucked up, trying to roll you again, and the two of you smashed into a half-rotted crate, splinters bursting. The smell of mold and dust coated your tongue, acrid and foul. You shoved harder, knee digging into his ribs until finally—you broke free of his grip and pinned him flat against the concrete. You straddled his waist, your hands pressed hard against his shoulders, forcing him down. Both of you were panting, sweat and blood smeared across your skin, breaths shallow with fury.
And then—something shifted.
Toby’s head tilted back, baring the flushed stretch of his throat. His pulse throbbed there, fast and strong. And he was looking right at you, eyes wide and unblinking behind the streaks of dirt and blood.
Not fighting. Not mocking. Just… giving. Exposing his throat, silent, his gaze locked on yours as if daring you to finish what you’d started last week.
You froze. The world narrowed to the hollow of his throat, to the heat rolling off his body beneath you, to the fact that he wasn’t pushing you away. He was waiting.
Your heart lurched, fury colliding with confusion. You ripped your hands off him and stumbled up, standing over him. “What the fuck are you doing?” you demanded, voice sharp, trembling.
Toby stayed on the floor, chest rising and falling, throat still exposed. Slowly, his familiar grin returned—thin, crooked, unsettling. But he didn’t answer. He just chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t steady. It cracked halfway out, like he couldn’t quite hold it together.
“Go on,” he rasped, voice roughened by the fight—and maybe something else. “Do it a-again. Thought y-you liked shutting m-me up.”
Your stomach flipped. Heat curled low in your spine, but rage fought its way back to the surface, blinding the confusion you felt. “You’ve been fucking with me all night,” you hissed. “Cutting me off, tripping me, stealing every kill. And this—” your eyes hovered over his throat, his pulse hammering beneath skin still faintly stained with last week’s bruises “—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
His grin faltered, but his eyes never left yours. Nervous. Hungry.
You almost laughed, disbelief bubbling sharp in your chest. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “You’ve been trying to piss me off so I’d choke you again?”
The silence was answer enough. His jaw worked, his breath shallow, silently chasing the contact he wasn’t brave enough to ask for.
Something ugly and electric knotted in your chest.
“You’re fucking sick,” you spat, standing to put space between you. “All this—what—just to get your little fix? You’re pathetic.”
He sat up slowly, tearing at the strap of his muzzle and shoving the piece off his face—the metal clattering against the cold floor, and finally let out a low laugh—broken, ragged. “Maybe. But you w-were gonna do it, weren’t y-you?”
You turned away, disgust coiling hot in your chest, but Toby’s voice followed—low and sharp, like a knife slipped between ribs. “Guess I w-was right. You only e-e-ever look good wh-when you’re on top o-of me.”
That was it.
You spun, fury surging bright and blinding, and launched yourself at him. You couldn’t care anymore if this was some perverted goade, he would get what he asked for now. He hit the floor hard, head bouncing off concrete with a dull thump, and before he could so much as blink, your hand was clamped around his throat.
“Oh, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you snarled, leaning close, your words dripping venom. There wasn’t a muzzle to block you anymore, so your noses were practically inches from each other. “Poor little Toby, can’t get off unless he’s gasping like a fish. Pathetic.”
His grin widened even as your grip tightened, lips split and cracking, teeth flashing. His laugh jerked and stuttered, turning to wheezes under your palm, but he didn’t fight you off. Not this time. Instead, his hands slid down, fumbling and quick, finding your thighs where you straddled his abdomen. He gripped tight, fingers digging into your pants hard enough to bruise, like he was holding onto an anchor while you cut the air out of him.
You squeezed harder, your mockery coming in ragged bursts. “What, you like this? Huh? You want everyone to see those bruises again—so they’ll know exactly what I did to you?”
His laugh dissolved into a groan, his eyes glassy, unfocused, lips parted on shallow, rattling gasps. And then—his hips jerked up against you. Once. Twice. You lurched forward with the movement, your full weight pressing down onto his throat as his body bucked beneath yours, desperate, uncontrolled. Your palm bore down harder, your thighs pinning him in place, and his grip on you tightened until it hurt.
It was obscene. Violent. Maddening.
Your grip faltered when his hands crept higher on your thighs, rough palms sliding toward dangerous ground. You ripped your hand from his throat, throwing your weight back to keep yourself steady before you toppled forward.
The second you let go, Toby’s laugh cracked open, wild and desperate, spilling into something frantic. He shot upright against your weight, grabbing for your wrists, his voice ragged with need.
“No—don’t fu-fucking s-s-stop—” His words broke into a choked rasp as his chest heaved. “Do i-it again—p-pl-please—”
You shoved him down hard, eyes blazing. “You’re insane—!”
“Yeah?” he spat, his voice catching, body twisting under yours. “Then fucking b-be insane with me, h-huh? Don’t just s-sit there acting li-like you don’t get o-off on t-this shit too!”
Your rage spiked, white-hot. “Are you serious right now? I nearly killed you last time, and this is what you want?”
“Yes!” His shout tore from his throat, cracking halfway through, echoing off the warehouse walls. “Yes, fuck—goddamn i-it, you don’t g-get it—I need it!”
The words hit like a brick to the chest, and you froze just long enough for him to ramble on, his voice rising, frantic, like the dam had burst and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He was panting for God’s sake.
“E-Ever since that night—when you h-had your hands on me—” His eyes flashed wild, glassy with something more than anger. “I-I couldn’t fucking s-stop thinking about it. I’d lay th-there staring at t-the bruises—every g-go-goddamn night—touching mm-myself to the thought of you choking me out, and it w-was the only thing that worked—”
You reeled back, disgust curling sharp in your gut. “You’re disgusting.”
He grinned—broken, shameful, desperate. “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I know. But when t-they faded—when the bruises were gone—” His voice cracked again, lower now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t finish an-anymore. Nothing worked. I’ve been going o-out of my fucking m-mi-mind—”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. “So you pulled this stunt tonight? Just to piss me off enough to do it again?”
“Yes! Jesus fuck! Yes!” he barked, eyes blazing with a feverish light. “I had to! I don’t c-care if you hate m-me, I don’t care if you th-think I’m pathetic, I just—fuck—” His hands clawed at his own throat now, red scratches blooming under his nails. “I need y-your hands here. No o-one else’s. Yours.”
You stared down at him, chest heaving, every nerve screaming between fury, disbelief, and something darker curling beneath. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve been choking your dick every night to the thought of me almost killing you?”
His grin faltered, teeth bared like he was half-laughing, half-breaking apart. “I wanted i-it. I still want it. I-I need you to finish me off, or I’m go-gonna lose my fucking mind.”
The words hung between you—hot, filthy, and raw. And for the first time since you’d known him, Toby wasn’t hiding behind his immaturity or his smirk. He was laid bare, trembling under you, begging with every cracked word.
“I hate you, Toby.” Your breath hissed out between your teeth, sharp and electric, as you slammed your hand back around his throat. His body jolted like you’d lit a match to it.
Toby’s moan tore out of him, shameless and guttural, the sound vibrating against your palm. His eyes rolled halfway back, lids fluttering, and he arched up into your grip like a starving man finally fed. “Fuck—yes—” His voice rasped high and broken, and the sheer relief in it made your stomach twist. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”
You leaned down, sneering inches from his flushed face. “Look at you. Pathetic little freak. Can’t even look at me without getting hard.”
His laugh cracked, feral, desperate, his mouth curling wide even as his breath stuttered in ragged gasps under your pressure. He coughed once, then sneered closer into your grip, gritting his teeth. “Say it a-again—fuck—say it—”
“Pathetic,” you hissed, tightening your grip, your thumb pressing against the thick veins running up his throat. “Sick little bitch.”
His hips bucked up violently, knocking you forward again, and this time he didn’t hold back. His hands shot past your thighs, fumbling frantically at his belt behind you. The buckle clattered against the concrete, his jeans yanked open with a clumsy desperation that made your blood thrum. You couldn’t see, but you could hear the moment Toby’s hand shot into his boxers and began jerking his cock wildly, moaning through labored chokes.
“Jesus Christ,” you spat, half a laugh, half a curse. “You’re actually jerking yourself while I choke you?”
“Not—j-jerking,” he wheezed, his grin splitting wider even as his face flushed red under your grip. “Just—getting ready—” His laugh broke into a cough, then another moan. “Fuck—I don’t care i-if you hate me, just k-keep squeezing—”
Your stomach knotted, fury clashing with something darker as you pressed down harder, feeling the frantic pulse hammer beneath your hand. You should have pulled away. Should’ve shoved him off and ended this disgusting display. But the way his voice cracked when you snapped at him, the way his body writhed beneath yours, hands trembling as he shoved his jeans lower—it sparked something hot and unsettling in your chest.
“I can’t stand you,” you breathed, voice low, sharp, and shaking with something you didn’t want to name. “You’re nothing without me.”
His moan bled into a laugh, high and frantic. “I k-know. I fucking know. That’s w-why I need you.” And god help you—your lips curled, the power surging through you like fire. You were enjoying it, too.
Your palm pressed harder against his throat, pinning him flat, your thighs tight against his ribs. Toby’s grin broke into something wrecked, lips trembling as his groans spilled shamelessly between shallow gasps.
“That’s it,” you hissed, leaning close, breath hot against his ear. “Choke on it. That’s all you’re good for.”
His hips jerked up violently, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs now, his cock straining free into the cool air. His hand wrapped tight around the base, already slick, already trembling. You could hear the sound of skin-on-skin, his fist moving insanely fast and brutal.
“F-Fuck—yes—” he choked, voice torn to ribbons under your grip. “Keep talking—don’t s-stop—please—”
You sneered, pressing your weight down harder, and he let out a strangled cry that almost tipped into a sob. “Look at yourself,” you spat, mocking, eyes blazing as you looked back to see him rut up into his own fist like a man possessed. “Wheezing like a dying dog. You’re disgusting.”
“Uh—hnn—f-fuck—yeah,” he rasped, grin stretching bloody and wild. “Say it a-again—call me that—”
“Disgusting. Pathetic. Useless little freak.”
His eyes rolled, breath rattling, hips pumping faster. You heard his boots scuff and slip on the ground below, kicking dust with every jerk of his body. His free hand clawed at your thigh, nails biting hard into your skin, grounding himself in your weight, in your hold on his throat.
“Harder,” he begged, voice splintering, a desperate whine breaking loose. “Please—please, don’t let g-go—don’t stop—fuck, I’m so c-close—”
And God help you—you squeezed tighter. You felt the pulse stuttering beneath your palm, his throat straining, his moans breaking into guttural wheezes as his body arched up beneath yours.
“You need me for this,” you hissed, lips curling in something that was no longer just anger. “You can’t even come without me choking the life out of you. Need me to make your little dick come.”
His hand blurred on his cock, hips bucking helplessly now, eyes glassy and unfocused as drool slicked the corner of his mouth. “Y-yesmmn—fuck, yehmmn—need you—need your hand—don’t let go—hnn—hah—”
And then he broke.
His whole body jolted beneath you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his hips bucked up hard. Hot release spilled across his abdomen and into his fist as he writhed, every vein straining under your hand while you squeezed him through it. His cock twitched violently in his grasp, his moans pitching higher, wetter, delirious. “Fuckfuckfuck—yes—” he gasped, trembling, his grip on your thigh bruising as he rode the high, every thrust messy, erratic, desperate.
You held firm until he sagged under you, chest heaving, throat raw and flushed purple where your hand pressed. Only then did you release him, wiping your palm against your jeans with a sharp sneer. “Fucking hell,” you muttered again, though your heart was hammering just as hard as his.
Toby lay there, grinning up at you with glassy, wrecked eyes, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He coughed once, rough and raw, then laughed—a cracked, unhinged sound. “Worth it.”
The warehouse smelled like iron and smoke, the floor sticky with blood, bodies slumped where they fell scattered throughout the halls. Normally you’d have cleaned—burned the place down or dragged the corpses to the woods. That was protocol.
But not tonight.
You shoved yourself off Toby’s chest, breath ragged, disgust curling sharp and hot in your gut. You wiped your palm against your pants until the skin burned, as if you could scrub off the memory of his throat thrumming beneath your grip, the moans spilling out of him, the mess he made of himself under you.
“Fuck,” you spat, turning on your heel. “Fuck this.”
Toby scrambled upright behind you, fumbling with his belt buckle, tugging his jeans back up with clumsy, shaking hands. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his hoodie damp with it too.
“W-Wait—hey—” he stammered, voice still rough, strained. He grabbed his hatchet and muzzle from the floor and scurried after you, footsteps uneven on the concrete. “Don’t—don’t make i-it a thing, okay? Just—forget it h-ha-happened.”
“Forget it?” you snapped, not slowing. “You’re sick, Toby.”
He laughed nervously, breath catching on the sound. “Yeah, well—you al-already knew that.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your stomach twisted too tight, too hot, your chest buzzing with something you didn’t want to settle on. You shoved through the broken door, the night air slapping cold against your damp skin, and started the trek back to the mansion. Behind you, Toby’s boots scuffed the dirt, never too far, dogging your steps like a shadow.
“C’mon,” he tried again, voice softer this time, more nervous. “Don’t g-go all weird on m-me. It doesn’t have to mean an-anything.”
Your fists clenched at your sides. “Shut up.”
Silence stretched between you after that, broken only by the crunch of leaves, the distant cry of some night creature in the woods. You didn’t look back, not once. But no matter how far you tried to walk ahead, he stayed just behind you—close enough to feel his presence crawling against your skin. Your chest heaved, every breath tight. Anger, shame, disgust—all of it roiled inside you, twisting lower until your stomach was burning, your thighs aching where his hands had dug into you.
Warm. You felt too warm. And you hated yourself for it.
By the time the mansion lights came into view through the trees, your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. You’d marched fast, hard, like if you moved quick enough, you could outrun the heat coiling in your gut, the way your pulse jumped at the memory of Toby’s voice breaking under your hand, at his eyes watering so easily.
But when you reached the porch steps, he was still there. Still trailing you. And no matter how you tried to bury it—your body still hummed with the echo of his moans.
“J-Just don’t say anything to t-them—”
“Shut up, Toby.”
The mansion’s door creaked open, hinges groaning into the quiet of the hour. You stepped in first, blood dried on your clothes, boots heavy with dust. The air inside smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old leather, warmth clinging to the walls after the chill of the forest outside.
Masky looked up from the couch where he sat sipping from a steaming mug. Hoodie was leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, while Kate perched on the armrest, picking at her fingers.
Three sets of eyes landed on you and Toby at once.
You kept yours on the floor, brushing past with a muttered, “It’s done.” Your voice was flat, clipped, nothing like the normal back-and-forth bickering they were used to hearing spill through the door after missions. Toby hovered behind you, shifting from foot to foot. His hatchet dangled loose at his side, his hoodie wrinkled, belt crooked like he’d thrown it back together in a rush. His mouth opened once, twice, but no words came.
Masky’s eyes narrowed. Hoodie straightened. Kate blew a huff of air through her nose, brows furrowing as her gaze bounced between you both. You didn’t wait for questions. You strode past them, your chest tight, your pulse hammering, Toby’s nervous fidgeting prickling against the back of your skull like static. Your boots echoed faint up the stairs, and when you reached your room, you shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Finally—silence.
You pressed your back against the wood, chest rising and falling, staring blankly into the shadows of your room. Your knees felt weak, like the fight had dragged out hours longer than it really had.
“What the fuck,” you whispered into the stillness. Your mind replayed it whether you wanted it to or not: his face slack with need, his body bucking beneath you, his voice breaking when you called him pathetic. The sound of him moaning your name. The way he’d begged you not to let go.
Your pulse jumped hard, traitorous, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as though that could cage it. How? How had this boy—the one who needled you, cursed you, fought you at every corner—made your stomach twist and your core ache with just his wrecked voice and shameless grin?
You growled under your breath, shoving off the door, moving on autopilot. Stripping out of bloodied clothes. Cleaning the grime from your skin in the dim light of the bathroom mirror. Your reflection looked wrong—flushed, unsettled, eyes too wide.
You tried to ignore it.
Back in your room, you tugged a shirt over your head and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them tight around yourself. The sheets were cool against your skin, the house humming faint and low in the background. You shut your eyes, forcing yourself to think of anything else.
But your mind betrayed you.
Every blink brought back Toby—the heat of him, the frantic way he’d clawed at your thighs, the rasp of his moans under your palm. You could almost feel his throat again, the thrum of his pulse weakening against your grip, the desperate way he’d pushed into your hand as if he couldn’t live without it. The way he insisted only you could do this for him—only you.
Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets. “Goddamn it,” you muttered, low, ashamed.
But your hands moved anyway. Sliding down, curling over your stomach, lower, until your fingers pressed against the ache that had been building since you walked away from him on that filthy warehouse floor.
Toby’s voice played in your head, raw and broken—Harder. Please. Don’t stop.
The sheets were stifling, heat curling in every inch of your body, but you burrowed deeper under them anyway, cocooning yourself as if that could keep the shame in. Your breath was uneven, pulse climbing higher the longer you tried to resist. Your hand slipped lower, into the waistband of your shorts, finding the slick heat between your thighs. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the realization made your stomach flip.
“Fuck…” you hissed under your breath.
But your fingers moved anyway. Slow at first, just circling, teasing, trying to convince yourself you weren’t really doing this. Except the moment you closed your eyes, you saw him again—Toby’s head tilted back, throat bare to you, his lips parted in a desperate grin as you squeezed down harder.
The memory made your hips twitch, your hand quicken. Your breathing grew rougher, sharper, filling the stillness of your room. The friction wasn’t enough—you needed more. You slid two fingers against your entrance, pressing inside and gasping at the sudden stretch, your body clenching tight.
And your mind betrayed you again.
You imagined it was his hands, not yours—rough, calloused palms pushing inside, desperate and greedy. You imagined the way he’d been bucking against you, hips jerking, like he was trying to fuck the air just to get relief. What if you had fucked him then? Would it have been as fast and desperate as his fist was?
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it. Your free hand clutched the sheets by your head, knuckles whitening as your pace picked up. Each press, each thrust of your fingers had your body curling tighter, chasing something you didn’t want to admit you wanted. Your thighs trembled. Sweat dampened your temples.
And then Toby’s voice flooded your skull, unbidden: Harder. Please. Don’t stop. I need you.
Your body jerked. A moan tore from your throat. You slammed your fingers deeper, grinding your palm against your clit until the ache sharpened into something blinding. Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, your body arching off the bed, breath caught, the sound of his pleading still ringing in your ears.
You stayed there, quivering, your hand still buried between your thighs as the aftershocks trembled through you. The sheets were tangled, your skin slick with sweat, your chest heaving. And when your mind finally cleared, disgust hit you like a wave.
You ripped your hand away, burying your face into the pillow, your body still thrumming with unwanted pleasure.
“What the fuck is wrong with me,” you whispered to the dark, voice breaking. But no matter how tightly you curled into yourself, no matter how hard you tried to will it away, the memory of his moans and the feel of his throat under your palm stayed burned into you.
“I hate that boy.”
── .✦
The mansion was never quiet, not really. Floorboards creaked, the woods whispered, doors groaned when opened. But between you and Toby? Silence had become the loudest thing of all.
You ignored him. Flat-out, stone-faced ignored him.
When he leaned against the doorway of the training room, flicking his pocket knife open and shut, waiting for you to snap? You kept punching the heavy weight bag, not giving him so much as a glance.
When he dropped some smartass remark during meals, fishing for the rise he always used to get? You chewed slowly, eyes fixed on your plate, not even flinching.
When he “accidentally” bumped your shoulder in the hall? You walked on, didn’t miss a beat.
It drove him mad—you could see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his tics flared sharper, faster when you didn’t bite back. But it drove you mad too, in a way you didn’t want to admit.
Because the bruises were back.
Dark, blooming fingerprints circling his throat like a necklace only you could’ve left. They were darker than last time, more intense. They peeked from under his collar when he tilted his head back, caught the light when he twisted just so. And every time you saw them, your stomach clenched.
You couldn’t help imagining him again, in that messy sprawl on the warehouse floor—eyes glazed, lips split, gasping for air under your hand. The memory tangled with the fact you knew he was jerking off to it every night, chasing that high you’d given him like some addict.
And then came the shame.
Shame because you’d done the same. Shame because your own fingers had dug into yourself with his voice in your ears, his body pressed against yours in your mind. Shame because it made you warm now, just thinking about it in broad daylight. You hated yourself for it.
The others noticed.
Masky groaned and rolled his eyes whenever the silence stretched too long in the room, muttering about “finally shutting the both of you up.” Hoodie, quiet as ever, glanced between you two with something unreadable in his gaze, like he was tracking pieces to a puzzle he didn’t want to put together. And Kate? She smirked. She didn’t say anything—yet—but her eyes lit up with amusement every time Toby walked in, bruises stark and ugly, your gaze flickering before you could stop it.
The mansion wasn’t built for subtlety. Everyone could feel the tension brewing.
And Toby? Toby basked in it. Even when you ignored him, even when your face burned with shame, you could see it in the edge of his grin, in the way he let his collar hang just a little lower. He liked that you saw the bruises. He wanted you thinking about them. Thinking about him.
── .✦
The porch was cold, even with the smoke curling warm in your lungs. You leaned against the railing, staring into the stretch of black trees. The woods whispered with wind and crickets, an endless, empty hum that should’ve eased your head but didn’t.
You were halfway through your cigarette when the door creaked behind you. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. His uneven footsteps, the scrape of his hoodie against the doorframe—Toby.
You stiffened immediately, flicking ash into the night, already crushing the half-finished cigarette against the rail. The second he stepped outside, you pushed off the porch, muttering, “Nope.” But before you could make it to the door, his hand shot out and grabbed your arm.
You spun on instinct, your fist colliding with his chest, hard enough that it would’ve left anyone else wincing. He didn’t even flinch. His head just tilted, eyes flicking from your hand to your face.
“You probably liked that too, didn’t you?” you spat, ripping your arm from his grip. “Bet you’ll jerk off to that later too.”
For a moment, the corner of his mouth curled up into a grin like he was about to shoot something smart back. But then it faltered. He swallowed, shifting his weight. “You can’t k-keep being mad at m-me,” he said, quieter than you expected.
You barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, that’s rich. What’s this—gaslighting me now? Pretending I imagined all your bullshit? You baited me into it, Toby. You made me—”
“I’m not saying th-that.” His voice cut through, sharper this time. He stepped closer, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting. “I’m saying… you d-did it too. You wanted it. D-Don’t dump all the blame o-on me like I’m the only fucked up o-o-one here.”
You blinked at him, the words burning hotter than the smoke simmering in your lungs. The laugh that came out of you was dry, ugly. “Wow. That’s your angle? Turn it around on me so you don’t feel like a creep?”
He shook his head quickly, stammering, “No. That’s not—fuck—” He scrubbed a hand through his messy curls, his tics pulling his shoulders tight. Then his voice dropped, raw and stripped. “I just… I hate i-it when you’re quiet.”
That stopped you.
His eyes flicked up to yours, no grin this time, no mask. Just something bare. “I can handle y-you being pissed at me. You c-can scream, throw punches, call me every name in the book—I don-don’t care. I’ll give it right back. That’s what we do.” He took a step closer, the porch creaking under his boots. “But this? Y-You ignoring me? Acting like I don’t exist? That’s wo-worse than any fight we’ve ever h-had.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse suddenly pounding in your ears.
“You always bounce b-back,” he went on, voice rough with an edge of desperation. “No matter h-how ugly it gets, you always come back a-at me w-with something. And now you’re just—gone. Silent. And it fe-feels like I’m fucking… nothing t-to you. And I can’t stand that.”
The words hung between you, heavy as the smoke drifting in the night air. You clenched your fists, struggling to breathe steady. Your chest felt too tight. His words were still in your ears, rattling around, refusing to leave. You dragged a hand through your hair, then crossed your arms hard, locking yourself in. Your gaze flicked down—just for a heartbeat—to his throat, where the bruises were stark against pale skin, then to his hands fidgeting at his sides. A sigh slipped out before you could swallow it down.
“God, you’re annoying,” you bit out, venom dripping. “You stand here begging for scraps of my attention like some whipped fucking dog.”
Toby’s lips twitched, but he didn’t fight back. He just nodded once, sharp, almost eager. “Y-Yeah. I am.”
You blinked at him, taken aback. Then the anger surged hotter. Even still, even as you tried to push him away, he was still enjoying it.
“You don’t even try to deny it? That’s how low you are? That’s how little self-respect you have?”
“Mmhm.” Another nod. His boots creaked closer against the porch boards.
Your arms tightened across your chest. “You’re disgusting, Toby. You make me sick.”
“Yeah.” Another step closer. His grin was small now, faint, but his eyes were locked on you like he was drinking it all in. Your nails bit crescents into your arms. You should’ve walked away—you knew you should’ve walked away—but the way he was letting you tear into him only made your pulse race faster.
“Say it,” you snapped, stepping forward yourself. “Say you’re a fucking disgusting waste of space.”
“I’m di-disgusting,” he echoed, nodding. “Waste of space. All o-of it. Go on.” He was right there now, only inches away, and still coming closer.
“You’re nothing,” you spat, your voice trembling with how hard you forced the words out. “I hate you.”
He nodded again, eyes bright, voice low. “Then hate me.”
And then he leaned forward. Not quick, not sharp—slow, steady, like he was giving you all the time in the world to stop him. His breath brushed your lips, his bruised throat bare and tempting, his whole body a dare.
Something snapped in you. Your hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. Hard.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” you growled, glaring into his eyes.
For a heartbeat, the night was silent, only your ragged breathing between you. His lips moved against your palm, hot breath searing your skin, but he didn’t try to pull away. He just looked at you, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if you’d given him exactly what he wanted.
Then his arms came up.
Before you could react, he wrapped them around you, hauling you flush against him. Your body collided with his, hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs, and that’s when you felt it—his bulge thick and insistent against your hip.
Your heart jumped. You recoiled, but he only crushed you tighter, his muffled voice spilling hot against your palm. “Can’t—fuck—can’t help i-it,” he mumbled under your hand, words slurring but frantic. His eyes were wild, pleading and burning all at once. “You don’t understand how good i-it sounds. The way you talk to me—how mean you a-are—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped, pressing harder against his mouth, like you could shove the words back down his throat. And then—warm, wet, obscene—his tongue dragged across your palm. You jerked your hand back instantly, grimacing. “Motherfucker—”
The slap cracked sharp across his face before you even thought about it, your palm stinging from the impact. He didn’t even blink, face jerking to the side for only a moment. His laugh tore out, jagged and breathless, like it was the best gift you’d ever given him. “More,” he goaded, his voice breaking with a tic as his grin split wide. “C’mon—hit me again—”
Something boiled inside you. Rage. Heat. Hunger. You couldn’t name it, couldn’t separate it. You fisted his collar instead, yanking him down hard enough his head snapped forward. Your lips crashed into his in a violent, messy collision—more teeth than anything else, half-kiss, half-bite.
He made a noise deep in his chest, caught between a moan and a growl, and bit back. Your teeth scraped his lip, tearing it raw, copper flooding between your tongues as you devoured each other like a fight you couldn’t win. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was violent, greedy, your mouths clashing, biting, swallowing each other’s breath until you were dizzy. His hands gripped your waist, bruising, desperate, dragging you closer still.
The porch boards creaked under your stumbling steps as you shoved him back, and he only laughed against your mouth, teeth clacking yours, his breath ragged and burning hot as he kissed you like you were both still trying to draw blood.
Your teeth clashed again, the taste of copper thick on your tongue, and Toby groaned like it was ecstasy. His hands roamed rough, not searching but taking—fingers digging into your hips hard enough you swore he’d leave bruises through your clothes. You shoved at his chest, trying to push him back, but he turned you violently, pinning you against the porch railing. The wood bit into your spine. His mouth crashed against yours, sloppy and biting, like he was trying to consume you whole.
“Fucking—” you gasped between kisses, your nails clawing into his shoulders. “I hate you.”
“F-Fuck yeah you do,” he growled, teeth dragging along your jaw before sinking in just hard enough to sting. His hips ground forward, rough, shameless. His bulge pressed against your hip so hard you could feel every inch. “Show me just h-how much, baby.”
Your laugh broke into a moan, guttural and unwilling, as he rocked against you. That only pissed you off more. You tangled a hand in his curls and yanked his head back hard, exposing his throat. “Pathetic little pervert,” you spat, glaring at the bruises you’d already put there. Your free hand wrapped around his throat again, squeezing until his breath stuttered, and his eyes rolled for just a second.
He moaned just as loud and whiny as he had the other night. The sound made heat coil tight in your stomach. You pressed harder, relishing the way his pulse hammered under your fingers. He choked out a laugh, lips swollen and red, trying to lunge forward again—but you held him just out of reach.
“Say it,” you hissed. “Say you’re nothing. Say you’re mine to break.”
His grin split wide, voice raw and ragged as he rasped, “I’m nothing. I’m—fuck—I’m y-yours to break.”
That was all it took for you to slam your mouth back onto his, devouring him. Your bodies ground together in a messy, furious rhythm, every movement as much a fight as it was a touch.
Toby’s hand slid down, gripping the back of your thigh, hauling your leg up around his hip. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, bucking into you. Your nails raked down his chest, and he shuddered, growling against your lips. He bit at your bottom one hard enough to make you taste blood again.
The porch creaked, your breath echoed, and for a moment, the whole world was just this: violent mouths, grasping hands, and the line between hate and want blurring until there was no difference. You tried to shove him off, but he anchored himself against you with his hands—one gripping your waist, the other sliding lower, hot and slick, brushing over the waistband of your shorts.
You stiffened immediately, pressing back, but he didn’t stop. He shoved his hand down past the hem, his warm palm pressing flat against your fluttering cunt. You hissed, digging your nails into his shoulders. The pad of his thumb traced along your slick folds, the subtle heat radiating from your body under his touch making him groan low and uneven.
“Right—so defensive, but you’re soaked—” he panted against your jaw, dragging his fingers through your slick and probing against your entrance. You wanted to curse him, but your hips were too busy chasing after his hand, mind too muddled with want. “Y-You’re not very good a-at playing pretend.”
And then—careful, deliberate—he slipped a finger inside. The movement was slow at first, testing, curling just enough to brush the spot that made you gasp, hips bucking despite your effort to stay rigid. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat as your hands clamped over his shoulders, nails digging in hard, and yet your stomach tensed, core aching in unwanted, feral need.
“Goddamn it, Toby—get the fuck—” you tried to snap, but the words came out a whimper as his fingers moved in perfect rhythm with the heat coiling between your legs.
“Can’t stop,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw. “Your hands—your words—f-fucking kill me. I can’t help it.”
You clawed at him, nails digging into skin. He moved another finger in, slick and warm, curling expertly, pressing, rubbing, and suddenly the fire coiling low in your belly blazed out. You arched up, fighting, hissing at him through your teeth, but the sound only seemed to make him smirk against your jaw.
“You piss me off,” you spat, pressing back harder, rocking your hips against his hand in a mix of resistance and desperate need. Every nerve in your body screamed, every pulse of blood seemed to thrum straight down into the ache he was cultivating with each careful, greedy curl of his thick fingers. “You’re so fucking gross.”
“Yeah,” he moaned, the word rattling through him. “Gonna make you cum. I h-have to. Ne-Need to.” The sound—raw, desperate, unashamed—made arousal coil tighter in your belly. Your free hand tangled in his hair, yanking his face to yours again. Teeth clashed, lips smacked, and he grunted as you bit him, tasting yourself on him, smelling the deep earthy tones of him.
He bucked into you, nails digging into your hip, sliding his fingers faster, curling them deep, teasing you, testing you, making you gasp and growl your frustration into the night air. You tried to glare, tried to snap insults, but your body betrayed you, trembling, hips pressing against him, sliding back onto his fingers despite the growl of anger and disgust still catching in your throat.
“Told you,” he rasped, voice ragged, “I l-like it better when you’re pissy.”
You hit him on the chest, hard enough to make him grunt, and he chuckled, throat choked and vibrating under your hand. The contrast—his rough, hungry laugh and the slick heat of him inside you—sent fire lashing in your veins, spreading down and low, making your nails dig deeper, your chest rise faster, your body tremble like you were breaking apart. You tried to pull away, tried to scream insults, tried to shove him off, but every movement only made him grip harder, curling fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he held you flush against him.
“Fuck—Toby…” you gasped, teeth clenching, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie as heat roared through your body. His hand moved faster, rolling you expertly against him, pressing and curling until every nerve in your belly lit up. You clenched, tight, shivering, and suddenly the wave hit—sharp, overwhelming, and completely consuming. Your body quaked as your orgasm ripped through you, muffled gasps caught in your throat. Toby didn’t falter; instead, he held you steady, rolling you just enough to ride it out, keeping you flush against him, your arousal spilling all over his palm.
Your chest heaved, and you grabbed his jaw with both hands, pulling him down roughly into a kiss that was desperate and messy. His mouth moved against yours, hot and slick, teeth nipping as tongues tangled, groans muffled and raw. And then, just slightly, the feral edge simmered into something slower, almost tired—your bodies still flush, hearts hammering, lips pressed together as you clung to him, fingers gripping his shoulders and chest. Your legs threaded around him, your nails dragging along his back, and you shivered against the warmth of him, still trembling from release and the cold air outside.
Finally, he pulled his fingers out, slick and glistening, and tilted his head back just slightly. His eyes locked onto yours, dark in the dim porch light, and he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking them clean with a low hum that made your heart stutter.
“Fuck,” you panted.
You don’t let him think. You take his wrist like it’s a leash and pull, hard, the way you used to when dragging him out of some stupid accident—only this time your grip is charged, hungry. Toby stumbles after you, mouth parted, eyes bright and unsteady, like he’s both surprised and exactly where he wants to be. He tries to say something—stammer a protest, some jagged joke—but you yank him faster and his words die in the cut of your stride. You pull him through the mansion’s doors and into the warmth of the house, dragging him up the stairs like a toy.
Upstairs creaks under your boots; the house is quiet but for the ragged sound of his breathing close behind. When you shove the door to your room shut, it slams. The sound is satisfying, final. You press back against it, feel the cheap paint bite into your back through your clothes, and the world narrows until it’s only you and him and the hungry strain between your bodies pressed tight.
He drops to his knees without being told. You haven’t even made a sound and he’s already obeying—fast, focused, hands fumbling as he works the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down slow, reverent, as though he’s unwrapping something sacred and volatile. The fabric slips over your hips and slides to your knees, and you can feel the cool air lick at your skin. Toby’s head dips, lips brushing the inside of your thigh first like it’s a courtesy, then moving with increasing boldness.
You’re in control. You know it. You feel it in the slick press of your bodies, the steady drum of your pulse at the back of your throat. You lean forward, hands braced on his shoulders, and you start to talk down to him.
“Look at you,” you say, each word deliberate. You’re quieter now inside, trying your best not to disturb Masky and Hoodie only a few doors down. “On your knees for me. So ready.” Your fingers rake through his hair, rough enough that he gasps, chin lifting to give you access. He nods, desperate and grateful, eyes glossy. The motion is small, but it’s permission, and it makes something molten shift deeper inside you.
Toby’s face is close, warmth and breath and that wild laugh caught somewhere between fear and worship. He’s trembling—hands shaking as they find your hips, thumbs stroking, mapping, sliding up and under your shirt. He lifts his mouth and your name slips off his lips like a prayer. The sound is intoxicating. He’s pathetic on purpose: he knows that’s exactly what you want to see, and he gives it fully.
“You like the way you look when you beg?” you murmur, leaning down to press your forehead to his. “Like how it feels?.”
He swallows. His voice is a thin thing when it comes. “I—please. I like—hnngh, I like w-when you—” He breaks, breath hitching. “I like when you make me—when y-you choke me—when you sa-say those things.” His fingers curl into your hips like anchors, digging into your flesh.
You grin, and it’s all teeth. You like that he admits it. You like that he’s helpless to stop himself from wanting more, and you take your time making that want work for you. Hell, he couldn’t even cum without your help a week ago. One hand slides down his scalp, tilting his head, the other ghosts lower until the pad of your thumb brushes the tint in his jeans. He pants, a sharp, eager noise, and when you press that thumb—just a tease—he moans and jerks, hips lifting on their own.
“Good boy,” you whisper, the title slipping out like a command. “Work for me.”
He obeys like he breathes—fast. His hands grip your thighs, pull you closer, and he uses his mouth this time—not gentle, not careful, but greedy. When his lips close around your clit, and your back immediately hits the door, rattling the frame. He’s competent; his mouth knows how to coax sounds from you, how to lap his tongue through your folds, how to curl it in the right place. He sucks, he sucks hard, and you can feel it all rolling through you—the tug and the release, the heat pooling and then building again.
You press a palm flat to the crown of his head and drive him harder, encouraging, demanding, not letting him take the easy route. You want him raw, you want him ragged; you want him making up for every single ache he’s caused you. You lean your weight into him, hips rocking as his mouth works miracles, and you start to bark orders—softly but stiff.
“Faster.”
“Mhmn—” he hums, wrapping his hands behind your thighs, pulling you closer.
“Keep your eyes up, Toby.”
He answers by sinking his tongue into your cunt, forcing the muscle into the sticky sweet slick of your last arousal. His eyes flutter and roll, his nose pressing against your clit as he swallows every taste of you.
He’s shameless now, hands slamming up your thighs, hauling you closer until the pads of his fingers dig into the soft of your waist. He crushes his face between your legs, breath hot and urgent, tongue darting, exploring. When his fingers slide from your leg to between them, worming their way to your entrance with his tongue, you clench, eyes rolling with the stretch. He moans against you, the sound vibrating right up into your pelvis, and the crude, honest worship of it makes heat flare up into your throat.
You keep talking, degrading in that perfect, stinging way that makes him whine harder, do more. Each insult you throw is an instruction, each barb a route to deeper compliance.
“You want this,” you tell him, voice low and hard. “You want to be thrown around. Admit it.”
He lifts his head, face flushed, lips slick. He meets your eyes and says it plain, breathy and broken, “I wa-want you to hate me. I want you to hit me and h-hurt me.” He nods, like a man confirming the one truth he lives for.
“You don’t even—hah—even feel pain.”
“Let’s play pretend.”
That’s all you need. You press him back with a casual force, pressing down on his shoulders and forcing him flat to the floor. His back hit the wood, hoodie riding up, and you didn’t give him the chance to keep talking. You climbed over him, straddling his chest, knees planted on either side of his shoulders, the weight of you pinning him like prey.
“Shut up,” you spat, leaning forward just enough that your shadow swallowed his face. “You want to fuck me so bad? You’re gonna fucking earn it.”
Toby’s grin only widened. His hands went to your thighs automatically, not pushing, not resisting—just holding, squeezing like he was anchoring himself to you. His eyes, those wild, fractured things, were locked on your cunt hovering above him. His mouth fell open on instinct, tongue flashing out in a shaky, eager swipe across his lips.
“Fuck—look at you,” you muttered, rolling your hips forward until you sat fully on his face. His nose pressed firm against your clit, his tongue sliding up and tasting you with a hunger that sent shocks all the way down your spine. “On the floor, exactly where you belong.”
The sound he made against you was half-moan, half-chuckle, and the vibration shot straight through you. You fisted his messy curls, forcing his head back into the wood, rocking yourself harder against his mouth.
“Open wider,” you ordered, voice sharp, breath catching. “You’re gonna take every bit of me.”
He obeyed instantly, mouth parting, tongue flattening and dragging in long, desperate licks. He was sloppy, unashamed, drowning himself in you. Every time your hips rolled down, he groaned like he was savoring it, like he’d starve if you moved away. You ground against him harder, chasing the rhythm, riding his face with purpose. The slick sounds of his tongue working you filled the room, obscene and perfect. Toby’s hands clamped tight on your thighs, pulling you down harder, like he wanted to suffocate under you.
“Stupid weirdo,” you hissed between gasps, yanking his head tighter into your heat. “This is what you’ve been begging for, isn’t it? My pussy—fuck—my fucking hands on you.”
His answer was a muffled, ecstatic noise, hips bucking up from the floor uselessly. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t joke, couldn’t bite back. He could only take it—your weight, your rhythm, your degradation. He moaned into you again, and you felt the sound rip through your core.
You leaned back slightly, fingers twisted cruelly in his hair, your thighs trembling as his tongue curled just right, hitting that spot over and over. You threw your head back, breath breaking into ragged gasps, staring up at your ceiling just like you had a couple of nights ago—imagining how he would feel against you. It made your heart burn.
“God—fuck, Toby—don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. His mouth latched tighter, tongue flicking, sucking, devouring like it was oxygen. You rode him through it, thighs squeezing against his head, grinding down until the pleasure crested sharp and overwhelming.
When it hit again, it was violent. You clamped down around his tongue, body shuddering, a cry tearing itself from your throat as you came hard, grinding his face through the waves. Toby moaned with you, greedy for every second, every twitch, every slick pulse. The overstimulation was already building, your body growing so tried. You slumped forward on shaking thighs, chest heaving, still tugging his hair, forcing him to lap at you while aftershocks rolled through. Only when your muscles gave did you finally lift off, dragging your heat from his face and watching as he gasped for air, lips and chin wet, eyes glazed and wide.
You smirked down at him, breathless but still sharp. “Look at you. So pitiful.”
Toby laughed—hoarse, shaky, half-mad—licking his lips like he couldn’t bear to waste a single taste. “Do it again,” he begged, voice raw. “Please—ride m-me again.”
“Nah.”
Your thighs trembled as you rose off of him, knees shaky, breath uneven. Toby’s hands pawed uselessly at the floor, still reaching, still begging—but you ignored him. You staggered to your bed, hips heavy with the ache he left behind, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your burning skin, and you stretched out, lazy and languid, your feet still dangling over the edge, your back arching with the natural curl of exhaustion and satisfaction.
Behind you, you heard him scramble up—the shuffle of knees, palms on the floor, the frantic sound of him scurrying like a dog chasing its master.
“Stay.” The single command cracked through the quiet like a whip. He froze. “Don’t you fucking move.”
You didn’t need to see him to know he was obeying—you could feel the tension rolling off him, could almost taste the way he wanted to lunge forward, to drag his mouth back where it belonged. You felt his eyes bore between your legs, onto the mess he had created now cooling on your skin.
“P-Please…” Toby’s voice was a rasp, thick with need. “Please, let me—let m-me touch you—”
“I said no.”
Your words were final, and they cut. You heard him groan, guttural, muffling it into his fist. A second later, the sound of teeth scraping against knuckles filled the air—he was biting down hard just to keep himself quiet. You turned your head slightly, gaze dragging to where he stood, and what you saw made a laugh roll out of you, low and cruel.
Toby was doubled over, one hand fisting in his hoodie, the other clawing at the waistband of his jeans. The bulge strained hard and obscene against the denim, and he rocked into it like he could grind the ache away. He looked half feral, pupils blown, mouth wet, hair hanging in his face. Pathetic. Perfect.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” you teased, voice lazy with amusement. You knew it didn’t really hurt him, but he wanted to play pretend, didn’t he? “Can’t even move without thinking about me, huh?”
He groaned again, louder, his body jolting with the effort of restraint. His knuckles were slick with spit where his teeth dug in, and his free hand gripped his jeans like he could tear them open. You laughed again, sharper this time, and rolled onto your back. Your legs hung off the edge of the bed, feet brushing the floor, and you spread your knees wide, lazy and taunting. The motion was deliberate—an invitation, a cruelty, a display he couldn’t resist. It didn’t matter if he had already made you cum twice, you needed him to fuck you right now just to prove a point.
You were going to make this boy cum all by yourself. Not the idea of you, not his imagination—yourself.
“Go on, Toby,” you murmured, voice dripping with control. “Come here.”
Toby nearly tripped over himself getting to you, stepping between your dangling legs like he belonged there—like he had been waiting his whole life for it.
You leaned up onto your elbows, reaching a hand out to the edge of his waistband. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in jagged heaves as your fingers toyed with his belt, tugging it open with a cruel kind of patience. The metallic clink of the buckle rang loud in the quiet room, and Toby’s hands twitched at his sides, useless, trembling, aching to reach for you.
“Keep them there,” you warned without looking up. “If you touch me without permission, you’re done.”
He whimpered softly—pathetic and desperate—and forced his arms straight at his sides, fingers flexing, curling into fists as though nailing himself to the spot.
You unzipped his jeans with a sharp tug, knuckles brushing the hard swell pressing against the fabric. Toby hissed through clenched teeth, head falling back, the veins in his throat standing out under the dim light. You smirked, tugging the thick fabric apart, and then slid your hand under his waistband, under the last barrier.
The heat of him hit you first—feverish and pulsing. You pulled him free, and your breath caught despite yourself.
Toby’s cock was flushed, angry red, the skin tight and stretched, a bead of slick shining at the tip. His breath came out in a stutter when the cool air touched him, his thighs trembling under your gaze. He was thick in your hand, twitching, the veins standing out like cords beneath your grip. His pubic hair was just as messy and unkempt as the rest of his hair, running up in a smattered patch to his belly button, coaxing your eyes to the mouthwatering crease of his v-line.
You let go of him, rubbing that hand between your legs, wetting your hand with your own slick. Toby’s teeth practically chattered as he thrummed, watching you.
And you didn’t give him mercy. Not even a second. You dragged the same hand you’d just rubbed against your soaked core up his shaft, coating him in your slick before your fist wrapped around him fully. Toby nearly folded in half, a broken noise tearing from his throat as his knees buckled.
“Fuck—” his voice cracked.
You stroked him hard. Fast. Cruel. Your hand pumped with purpose, each stroke wet, obscene, loud in the heavy silence. His cock twitched violently in your grip, swollen and desperate, precum smearing across your knuckles as you worked him like you were wringing every ounce of need out of his body.
Toby ripped his hoodie off like it was strangling him, yanking it over his head and tossing it blindly aside. His chest was pale, scarred in streaks that caught the dim light of your room, his stomach taut and flexing with every jerk of your hand. His hair clung wild to his forehead, his lips slick, swollen, parted in ragged gasps. He looked ruined—an animal panting, feigning for you.
And fuck, you hated him. You’d always hated him. Hated the way he laughed, the way he berated you, the way he made everything harder than it had to be. But now—seeing him above you, trembling, literally begging for the mercy of your hand—something deep and feral cracked open inside you.
You tightened your grip and stroked faster.
Toby’s whole body jerked. His hands shot forward instinctively, clamping around your wrist, not to stop you, but to slow you down. His face was wrecked, eyes glassy and pleading, mouth falling open around broken words. “Please—please slow d-down—fuck, I—” He groaned, panting above you, chest heaving with every groan. “You’re—you’re gonna make me—fuck—too fast—”
Your grip went iron-tight for a moment, jerking him so hard his hips jolted forward—then you stopped. Let go.
Toby gasped, his body shuddering as the sudden loss ripped through him. His cock bobbed helplessly in the air between you, slick and flushed, veins throbbing as if the blood inside him had nowhere else to go. His chest heaved, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief.
You stared up at him, pure venom in your gaze, lips curling into a cruel little smile. “What did I say, Toby?”
His gaze shot down to where his hand still gripped yours.
“I told you not to touch me,” you hissed, shaking off his hand like it disgusted you. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? Can’t listen to anything.”
The mockery in your voice carved him open. He whined, stepping back an inch as if it physically stung, his cock twitching painfully in the air between you. Then, without warning, you sat up. Toby’s eyes darted down, confused, hopeful, but then widened when your hands went to the hem of your shirt. You peeled it off in one slow, deliberate motion, baring yourself, and tossed it carelessly aside.
His breath stuttered. He looked like you’d punched him in the gut. You leaned forward again, close enough that your breath fanned against his chest, eyes locked on his ruined face. You didn’t touch him. Not a single brush of your hand. You just sat back a little and watched. Watched as his hips twitched, as he tried to will himself not to reach for you again, as his cock leaked and throbbed helplessly, straining toward the heat of your body.
He writhed in it like it was killing him. His hands fisted at his sides so hard his knuckles cracked, his chest heaving with harsh, uneven gasps. His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. The desperation turned sharp, ragged.
“F-Fuck you,” he spat, the words rough, guttural. “You—you fucking t-t-tease—you think you’re—gah-goddamn better than me?”
You tilted your head, smirking cruelly. “I don’t have to think it.”
His huff came out half a snarl, half a whimper. He shifted on his feet, cock jerking violently, his whole body tight with the strain of keeping his hands off you.
“Don’t—don’t fucking d-do this,” he begged through gritted teeth, but even his curses broke into something needy. “Goddamn bitch—you can’t—fuck—you can’t just stop—”
“Oh, I can,” you murmured sweetly, leaning back on your elbows so your chest arched and his eyes dropped helplessly. “I told you not to touch me. You broke the rules. Now you get nothing.”
He actually growled, low in his throat, head dropping forward as he cursed again. His words were broken, a tangle of hatred and begging, teeth grinding as though if he didn’t use them to form insults, he’d cry out something weaker. “Fuck you—fuck—you’re s-so goddamn—” He groaned, thighs trembling. “Please, please—I’m begging you—don’t l-leave me like this—I’ll d-do anything—you h-hear me?”
The sound of his voice like that—shattered, strung out, caught between curses and pleas—shot straight through you. It stirred something low and hungry in your gut, made your skin prickle with heat. You smirked lazily, stretching your legs a little wider, making sure he saw everything. “You hate me so much, Toby,” you taunted, voice low, sultry. “So why are you begging me like a dog?”
He stared at you, jaw twitching with irritation. You tilted your head at him, lips curling into something cruel. His chest was heaving, his cock red and leaking, his fists trembling at his sides, and you knew he was about to break.
You dragged the knife in deeper.
“Aww,” you cooed, sliding off the edge of the mattress and rolling over onto your stomach. You crawled forward a little, your hips swaying as you moved further up the bed. Toby’s eyes followed every inch, wide and wild, his whole body shaking like an animal straining against its leash.
Then you stopped, sank down onto your elbows, your chest pressing to the sheets. You arched your back so hard it burned, your ass high in the air, cunt fluttering in time with your heartbeat. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, your voice low.
“Then come here, puppy.”
The word cracked him in half.
Toby didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up onto the bed so fast it shook under his weight, knees digging into the mattress as his hands clamped down hard on your hips. His boots scuffed the sheets, twisting them under his knees as he pressed behind you. His grip was bruising, frantic, like he thought you might slip away if he didn’t anchor you.
He slammed into you without hesitation, the force brutal and reckless. His cock drove deep, fast, urgent, and you gasped from the sharp, animalistic impact. He was panting, growling, releasing all the frustration, all the rage he’d been holding back, smashing into you like he’d intended on tearing you open.
“God—fuck!” he hissed, voice ragged, teeth clenched. “You—you’ve ruined me—stupid—fucking—”
You gritted your teeth, holding the bedspread tight, letting him feel your every shiver and thrum, every gasp and muffled cry. You pressed back against him just enough to meet each brutal thrust, riding his anger as much as he rode you. His hands clenched your hips tighter, dragging you back onto him with each slam. His motions were messy, desperate—no care for rhythm, only a need to fuck, to bury himself inside you, to release everything pent up in the past week. The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of you both, sheets twisting, skin slapping against skin.
“Yours?” you spat back, tone sharp and mocking. “You’re the one—hah—the one begging to fuck m-me—”
That stoked something further in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, reckless, as though trying to drive every ounce of need into you and make you feel his desperation. His growls turned to raw moans, voice trembling as he ground into you without restraint. One hand pressed against your back, the other gripping tight into the sheets beneath.
You could feel the stretch of him, hot and hard, sliding inside you in short, punishing jolts. Your stomach twisted, thighs pressed tight together, arching deeper with every slam, taking his animalistic pace.
The bed rocked under you, nails clawed into the sheets, every movement messy, filthy, primal. He was broken, panting, utterly at your mercy, and you turned your head to watch, smirking as he cursed and groaned, burying his face in your neck for support.
His lips found purchase, dragging wet, sloppy kisses along the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran through you, and a low, involuntary moan escaped your throat. Your hands shot up, tangling in his hair, yanking him closer to you, forcing his mouth against your skin as you pressed back against him, matching each thrust, each grind, each slick slide with your own desperate, hungry movements.
He groaned against you, teeth grazing your neck, and you bit back—literally—snapping your teeth down on his lower lip as he kissed you, mouth opening against yours in a collision of teeth and tongues. The kiss was violent, messy, consuming—an echo of the chaos that had always defined your dynamic. You shoved your body flush against him, hips rocking, back arching, dragging him as close as you could manage, fingers twisting in his hair like you were trying to tether him to you entirely.
“Fuck, I’m—” Toby rasped against your lips, breath rough, voice trembling. “I-I’m about to—shit, don’t stop—”
But you weren’t having it. Not yet. Not when you had the power, not when you could control him fully. With a sudden, deliberate push of your hips, you shoved him off of you, rolling the two of you until he landed on his back with a soft thump, sheets twisting beneath the force.
You straddled him immediately, knees planted on either side of his hips, pressing down with calculated weight. The shift of power was instant—Toby’s hands went to your hips instinctively, trying to find purchase, but you leaned back slightly, letting gravity work for you as you sank down onto him, his eyes watching as your cunt sheathed him.
“Mine,” you murmured, voice low, sharp, and all teeth and heat as you began to rock, rolling your hips forward and back with controlled, measured force. “This is mine from now on.”
He gasped, gripping your thighs, still trying to reclaim some sense of command, but you moved faster, harder, hips pushing down and pulling back like a pendulum. Toby’s head fell back against the mattress, hair tousled, lips parted in ragged moans, eyes glazed and desperate. Every thrust from you hit him with a sharp, relentless rhythm that had him gasping, shivering under your control. His hands gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin, begging, pleading, but you were merciless. You refused to move up and down, only dragging your hips back and forth, catching your clit on the tone of his pelvis.
“You like this?” you spat, leaning forward, pressing your chest against his, teeth brushing along his collarbone. “You like being mine, don’t you? Finally listening.”
“Yes! Fuck—yes!” he rasped, voice breaking, hands clinging to you. “You’re—fuck—you’re killing me—god, I’m y-yours—please—”
You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a wild, consuming kiss, tongue slipping inside to tangle with his as your hips rolled again, faster now, driving him closer to the edge.
“You whine too much, puppy.”
You leaned up slightly, pressing your palms flat against his chest, letting your fingers wander over the taut planes of his abs. The heat radiating from him was insane, skin burning, muscles tight under your touch. Slowly, you dragged your hands higher until your fingers latched onto the familiar groove of his throat—the place where all of this had started, where this little game had started between you.
Toby’s breath hitched immediately. His hands shot to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you as he thrust upward into your cunt. You gasped at the sharp, thrilling impact, the way his body forced yours down, bouncing you against him. He didn’t even hesitate—he wanted it, craved it, and he wasn’t holding back.
“Did you jerk off like this—hnngh—the first time I choked you? This fast?” you spat, voice low and sharp, watching his eyes begin to water.
“I—fuck—yes!” he rasped, tilting his head back, mouth open in ragged gasps. His hands slid higher, cupping your tits roughly, thumbs teasing, squeezing, forcing your movements to match his rhythm of jerking his hips up into you.
You grinned, biting down on your bottom lip as the chaos of it hit you. He was giving, he was taking, every motion messy, raw, and beautiful in its recklessness. You bounced down onto him, hard, each bounce of your hips shoving his cock deep, his hands clawing and forcing your body to meet his own.
“I hate you,” you hissed, brushing teeth over his collarbone, letting your grip tighten around his throat. “I hate you. I hate—hah—hate you. Fuck—don’t stop.”
Toby choked, face flushing against the grip on his neck, his breathing becoming labored. “Fu-Fuck—Fuck you bitch. Feels s-so—mmmnh—so good—” His hand reached around and slapped across your ass, grabbing the flesh in his palm and forcing your hips faster, forcing your pace to match his desperate thrusts.
You responded in kind, hitting his face with your palm once, twice, letting the sharp sting mix with the slick, hot heat between your bodies. He didn’t care. He couldn’t feel the pain, the slap, the rough hands on his chest, and it made him buck harder, moaning and growling in pure, unfiltered need. You slapped him again.
Toby’s growls turned sharp at that, low and dangerous, cutting through the thick, humid heat of the room. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, nails digging into your flesh as he thrust up against you. “You feel too fu-fucking good,” he spat, voice rough, teasingly cruel. “I’m gonna m-make you cum fi-first, bitch.”
“Oh, are you kidding?” you shot back, slamming down hard on him, hands wrapping tighter around his throat, eyes wild. “You’re gonna cum like the pathetic little pervert you are.”
His laugh was harsh, raw, vibrating against your hands. “You always h-have to—fuck—have to have a comeback—can’t j-just be quiet—”
You cut him off with another slap, your nail cutting his cheek where you hit him. A thin line of blood welled, and Toby stared at you through wide, frantic eyes. He grabbed harder, leaving dark purples across your hips and waist where his nails dug deep, tracing patterns only he could leave, marking you as his even as you marked him.
The room was chaos: skin slapping against skin, groans and curses tearing from both of you, bodies slick with sweat, hair wild and tangled, breaths ragged. Each thrust, each grind, each sharp slap or bite escalated the tension between you, a dangerous dance of dominance and pain and raw, primal need.
“C-Cum” he growled, tilting his hips, driving into you with bruising force, knocking the head of his cock against your cervix.
“Not before you,” you shot back, grinning fiercely, rolling your hips to match his pace, nails digging into the taut plane of his stomach as you leaned down to bite at his jaw, licking up his cheek to the spot you nicked him. Blood and sweat mixed, hot and sharp on your tongue, and it only pushed you both harder.
His hands dug into your thighs and waist, leaving angry red marks, dragging you down, forcing you to ride him with every ounce of strength and ferocity. You matched him blow for blow, bite for bite, scratch for scratch, until the two of you were a mess of raw, gleaming skin, bruises and blood painting the chaos of your struggle.
“I’m—fuck, Toby—fuck I’m coming—” you cried, digging your nails into his chest.
He whined, staring at the heavy way your eyes looked, his beginning to flutter shut. “Mhm—I c-can’t—hnn, I can’t stop—I’m gonna—”
Teeth sank, nails scraped, hips slammed, and finally the tension broke in a violent, shuddering peak. You both came together, voices strangled, wet, raw, bodies shaking, muscles trembling, bruised and marked and utterly wrecked. He snapped his hips one final time, and your cunt clenched against him so hard you felt the way he pulsed inside you. Every rope of hot cum filling you, claiming you. You milked every drop from him.
You collapsed against him, chest pressed to his, hearts pounding in furious synchrony. His breath came in ragged gasps, head tilted to the side, lips red, eyes glazed. You looked at him, smirk twisting across your lips even through the haze of post-climax heat.
“You’re disgusting,” you murmured, voice low, laced with satisfaction.
“And you’re worse,” he shot back, voice hoarse, smiling anyway despite the blood and mess.
For a moment, the fire between you softened just enough to let something else creep in. Your lips met his, sharp at first, teeth grazing, tasting the sweat and salt—but then, slower, gentler. The anger and frustration that had fueled you for the past two weeks melted, just for a second, into something almost tender. You kissed him, ignoring the slick heat still clinging to your thighs, the marks you’d left on each other, the bruises that would ache for days.
When you finally pulled back, your chest heaving, you allowed yourself a smirk, wet and satisfied. Slowly, achingly slow, you sat up, straddling him for one last lingering moment. He watched as your hips rose, his hands brushing your knees as you pulled him out, hissing at the tug before the final pop.
You felt the warmth slipping down your thighs immediately, his cum and your arousal making your cunt uncomfortably warm and sticky. You groaned.
“Fuck you,” you hissed, hitting his chest, Toby’s eyes nearly damn sparkling at the sight of his cum dripping out of you.. “You really are a damn dog.”
You collapsed onto the bed next to him, letting your arms fall across your chest. Your foot connected sharply with his side in a lazy, spiteful push. “Go away,” you muttered, tone sharp but breathless, still buzzing from the aftermath.
Toby groaned softly, but he didn’t move. Instead, he kicked his boots off with a quick, clumsy motion, then tugged the remnants of his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, surprised how they had managed to still stay on at all. He tossed them onto your floor. His eyes flicked to yours—but there was no pleading, no frantic edge this time.
Without a word, he crawled up next to you, chest brushing yours, arm draping loosely over your waist. You flinched slightly at the contact, the lingering warmth between you both still slick and potent, but the anger had faded into something heavy, intimate. Tense. The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and the raw, unspoken agreement that had finally, messily, solidified between you.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. You could feel him, warm and pressed against your side, heartbeat rattling in sync with your own. Your hands twitched, itching to push him away or move out of his reach—but instead, you let the silence settle, letting his arm lay limp across your waist.
Toby shifted slightly beside you, his fingers rubbing against your skin absentmindedly, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You know,” he muttered, voice low and tired, “I re-really don’t like being c-called a dog.”
You arched an eyebrow, smirking, reaching for your pillows and placing one under your head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t beg me like one.”
He rolled his eyes, but his gaze stayed locked on yours, sharp and intense, and you felt a flutter in your stomach you hadn’t expected. “Stop staring at me like that,” you said quickly, voice catching slightly. “You’re being weird. Go back to your own room already befo—”
He cut you off with a soft chuckle, leaning a little closer. “Can I k-kiss you again?” His tone was cautious, different from the heated demands of earlier, almost vulnerable.
Your heart thumped, and you stared at him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth, searching for something you couldn’t quite name. The air between you thickened, tense and electric.
Finally, you shook your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I hate you, Toby. That’s not going to change,” you said, flat but not cruel, voice almost a whisper.
Toby’s smile widened, slow and knowing, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Then hate me,” he murmured softly, leaning in.
And then he kissed you. Not hot, not frantic, not messy and angry like before—just a kiss. Soft, slow, a quiet brush of lips, a grounding anchor in the aftermath of a hurricane. It was a moment of connection, a fleeting affirmation that despite the violence, the teasing, and the mess of the past weeks, there was… something between you. Affection, of a sort neither of you had admitted until now. A weird type of longing.
When you pulled back, your foreheads brushed together for a second, eyes flicking to one another with something like understanding. No words were needed—just the weight of what had passed, and the subtle promise that, messy and complicated as it was, this was far from over.
But then you palmed his face, pushing his head away from you with a grin. He smiled against your hand, kissing it, too. His arm around your hip pulled you closer, and if you leaned into it, that’s nobody’s business but your own.
── .✦
The mission site was scattered with debris, slick blood, and the lingering metallic tang that you knew you’d have to clean up. The proxies moved efficiently, hauling bodies, wiping down surfaces, and gathering evidence, but you and Toby, as usual, couldn’t go five minutes without trading insults.
“God, you’re useless at this,” you snapped, throwing a wet rag at him that stunk of bleach and vinegar.
“I’m sorry Ms. Fucking Perfect, d-do it your damn self,” he shot back, voice sharp. You both glared at each other, daring the other to keep going.
Masky groaned behind you, rubbing his temples. “Are we still on about this? Just clean the goddamn blood.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you stood and grabbed Toby by the arm mid-retort and yanked him up, dragging him with you. Masky shouted something, but you were already climbing the stairs and dragging him to the first storage closet you saw. His eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react further, you shoved the door closed behind him.
He barely had a moment to process before his hands were on you, lips crashing against yours in a fast, rough kiss. His tongue darted in, claiming, and your hands tangled up into his hair as he slid one hand down the front of your pants, fingers immediately finding their mark and pressing against your aching clit.
You gasped into the kiss, teeth clashing against his in a way that was half challenge, half need. His other hand clutched at your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, the chaos of the mission, the others, the world outside that small, cramped closet, ceased to exist.
And in that moment, you realized just how much had shifted between the two of you.
The bickering, the arguing, the constant pushing each other’s buttons—it was all still there. You still drove him insane, and he still managed to get under your skin in ways no one else could. But instead of letting it spill over, instead of making everyone else deal with the fallout, you’d found a… solution.
You snuck off during missions, hearts racing, to bite, lick, and fuck the tension out of each other. After dinner, when the others were distracted, one of you would find the other and drag them to some quiet area of the mansion and use their hands on the other, letting the frustration and irritation turn into heat that left you both gasping and sticky. At night, sneaking into each other’s rooms to whisper insults, spurring the other on just so they’d grab you and fuck you through the mattress. During missions, your trips taking longer because you’d have to stop and fight over who was going to give the other head first.
It was messy. It was reckless. It was everything the two of you had always been—and now, for the first time, it was satisfying. The anger became fuel, the hate became lust, and the fights that had once been a thorn in everyone else’s side became an intimate, electric game of control, dominance, and pure, unfiltered need.
And even as you found yourself pressed against him in this closet, hands gripping, hips sliding together, teeth clashing, gasps mingling with curses, you couldn’t help but smile.
Eventually, the door clicked open, and you both staggered out, breath still ragged, hands sticky, hair wild, but the world had resumed its usual pace. Toby followed a step behind, straightening his hoodie, adjusting his belt, hands now conspicuously idle. You fixed your hair, wiping the slick from your lips, tugging your shirt back down.
Without a word, the two of you fell back into your roles, hauling gear, wiping surfaces, and cleaning up the aftermath like the chaos of a few minutes ago had never existed. You moved in tandem with him only because necessity demanded it, but there was a subtle electricity in the air, just enough that you both noticed—but neither spoke of it.
Masky and Hoodie exchanged a look across the room, each raising an eyebrow. Hoodie whispered something inaudible, and Masky shook his head, muttering, “I don’t care. They’re quiet.” They were confused, but grateful that the usual bickering had been replaced by quiet efficiency. They didn’t care how it got to that point.
Kate leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes. She watched as you and Toby moved through the cleanup with the barest hint of coordination, eyes occasionally flicking toward each other in a way that suggested familiarity… maybe even fondness, if one squinted.
Sliding closer to you as you scrubbed a particularly messy patch of floor, she whispered, teasing, “What’s changed? I didn’t know you started liking him.”
You froze mid-swipe, wiping at the surface with one hand, and let your gaze drift lazily toward Toby. He was kneeling a few feet away, straightening a chair, annoyed and fidgeting as usual, completely oblivious to Kate’s question.
A slow, amused smirk curved your lips. “Nah,” you said, voice light as you stared at him. “I hate that boy.”
Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.
pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso
wc: 14.8k
content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair
art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333
“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.”
You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?”
“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour.
If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space.
Pack you up and bring you with him.
But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position.
“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips.
“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.”
A routine mission.
It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment.
Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on.
“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.”
“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face.
He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you.
But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play.
Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his.
“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured.
“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.”
He liked the ring of it.
His wife.
All his.
He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time.
Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness.
You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself.
“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud.
“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it.
“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed.
Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed.
The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it.
Soon, you’d have the best.
“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both.
“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed.
“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes.
You wanted to believe him.
“Uh-huh,” you exhaled.
He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you.
His home.
Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.
“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you.
“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.
“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.
“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours.
There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.
But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up.
And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press.
Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.
Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress.
“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it.
Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes.
He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too.
You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum.
He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body.
Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay.
“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone.
Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body.
But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck.
He didn’t want to let go.
And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts.
They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot.
He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position.
But he’d get to stay with you.
Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment.
“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in.
“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.
Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out.
You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.”
That was just who you were.
What you’d do.
You gave him what he wanted.
Even when you didn’t like what he asked for.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.”
“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him.
But you giggled, and that was good enough.
“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested.
“We already-”
“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time.
“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?”
“I just want you.”
Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.
He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.
Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them.
Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become.
Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible.
They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.
It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on.
All just a galaxy away.
It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe.
Risky, sure, but it’d been done before.
And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem.
The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet.
Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter.
No, a more pressing issue had presented itself.
A distress signal was being sent up.
Someone was below – and begging to be rescued.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it.
“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen.
“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.
Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time.
“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”
“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far.
Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months.
“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded.
“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”
Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.
It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.
And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.
There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.
“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it.
He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.
Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.
“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.”
“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.”
Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave.
There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth.
“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing.
He told himself it was the right thing to do.
That it was what you would expect from him.
He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages.
You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera.
But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up.
“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it.
He wanted to touch the screen.
Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong.
“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it.
And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and-
Holy shit.
“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.”
A baby.
He was going to be a father.
His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.
“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.
Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments.
“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie.
No. You surely didn’t mean…?
“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?”
It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space.
Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it.
You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks.
“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.”
Never.
He’d fucking be there.
“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he?
Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four.
“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.”
He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera.
“I’ll come back for you.”
Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.
But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?
In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.
“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze.
Found his mouth opening, about to say no.
Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel.
But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way?
Would he be able to look his children in the eyes?
He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.”
Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it.
He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship.
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“You should move on.”
It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.
You couldn’t let go of him.
Six months turned into six years without Satoru.
The one thing you were terrified of had come true.
You lost him.
Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him.
Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks?
You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you.
It’s always someone else.
Until it’s not.
Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come.
“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-”
“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket.
You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father.
Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug.
Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead.
When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.
Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood.
Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere.
She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru.
But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt.
“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry.
“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys.
She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh.
You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it.
If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes.
You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about.
Apollo and Artemis.
After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery.
To be fair, you had done it in his place.
Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went.
The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call.
And then nothing.
NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious.
Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing.
Somewhere you’d never be able to reach.
You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them.
Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint.
You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.
At least the ocean was on Earth.
It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand.
But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too.
You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk.
Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed.
And Satoru had missed all of it.
Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one.
And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway.
Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.
There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it.
Him.
But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids.
The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it.
You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class.
Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings.
Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had.
You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it.
“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.
“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake.
His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go.
“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.
“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing.
“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over.
You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them.
“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”
You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.
“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.
Your chest hurt.
Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.
“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him.
“Oh, um-”
“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.”
People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”
“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”
“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence.
Satoru would know what to do.
But he wasn’t here.
And all the decisions were yours to make.
Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.
Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.
“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.
“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair.
You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field.
Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home.
Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play.
He didn’t.
To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either.
Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.
You told yourself that you were being an active parent.
Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards.
Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work.
And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.
He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing.
The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute.
Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy?
Smile back when they spoke to you?
Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet.
You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them.
But eventually, the school year wrapped up.
You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that.
Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it.
A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids.
Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out.
“Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing.
“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her.
“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose.
They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too.
“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting.
“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you.
It was nice of him.
This was nice, actually.
A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans.
But it wasn’t terrible.
You loved your children. Loved being their mom.
Maybe you could learn to love your life too.
You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang.
“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair.
“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.”
You didn’t want to consider if you would.
“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded.
You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to.
All you really wanted was for them to be happy.
“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him.
Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.
His eyes were dark.
Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them.
But they were deep. Warm.
“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.”
“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too.
He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”
“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously.
“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
Their mission was fucked.
Suguru was dead.
Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call.
Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder.
Now they had neither.
The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process.
Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too.
Like his best friend wasn’t gone.
He’d never get him back.
No one would.
Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home?
He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.
God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl.
The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it.
Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut.
But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now.
He wished you were here.
Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him.
That his best friend was somewhere better.
Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him.
Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life.
Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he?
He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-
The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief.
Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest.
Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.
Loading messages from the past eleven years.
No. No no no no no.
It was wrong.
It had to be fucking wrong.
The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-
Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back.
He did. He would.
The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone.
Begging him to not make you.
Gojo froze.
Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message.
Part of him wanted to hit stop.
Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it.
But his fingers weren’t fast enough.
And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying.
Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying.
The twins. His twins.
Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this.
Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera.
He was.
Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another.
His children were growing up without him.
From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids.
In what? Fifty minutes?
Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back.
They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him.
Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them.
And you, god, his pretty, perfect you.
Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead.
Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening.
You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked.
His girls a wormhole away.
Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you.
But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.
What if it was too late?
What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth?
The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met.
Would you stop missing him too?
He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background.
You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home.
Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you.
Gojo felt like a stranger.
Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his.
“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.”
“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off.
Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours?
He didn’t actually want an answer.
But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway.
You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up.
It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt.
An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed.
A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately.
Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.
Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do.
Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade.
But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-
He puked.
Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.
An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade.
Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame.
“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait.
But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it.
His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was.
And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back.
A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier.
His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.
“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.”
He was terrified to know how long.
“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.”
He wanted to see him. See both of them.
Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now.
“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.”
His chest hurt.
Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The mission should’ve been routine. Simple.
Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony.
“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.”
The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver.
“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.”
If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was.
Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him.
“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”
Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever.
“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?”
Everything hurt.
His body, his heart, his soul.
Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family.
The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated.
“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins.
You hadn’t even confirmed-
“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.
The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.
Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style.
No. You couldn’t-
“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.”
What a load of fucking shit.
The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it.
“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”
Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.
“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.”
Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed.
Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden.
“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?”
He could never hate you.
Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.
He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night.
Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.
“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”
No no no.
He could still make it.
Couldn’t he?
If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole?
Hadn’t he lost enough?
Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand.
You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-
A wedding dress.
“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight.
The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer.
You looked like an angel.
And Gojo sorta wished he was dead.
Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage.
And then a noise in the background startled you.
The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out.
Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.”
Another man was calling you baby.
Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open.
“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.”
“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly.
“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it.
And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat.
“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.”
It could be.
It would be.
Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time.
That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time.
Behind you, there was a knock on the door.
“Can I come in now?”
No.
This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you quietly answered.
Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.
But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead.
“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.”
The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared.
“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.”
Gojo wanted to strangle him.
Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son.
Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be.
“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him.
Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes.
See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him.
Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t.
You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru.
Not that you could even see him.
You thought you were talking to a ghost.
That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads.
“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.”
No. Please no.
He was.
“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.”
The screen went dark.
His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve.
He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened.
Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received.
A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago.
You weren’t married yet.
Maybe there was time.
And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back.
He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in.
“What the hell-”
Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now.
“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.”
That wasn’t a fucking option.
They had to make it.
But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right.
And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch.
He was barely showering.
Barely eating.
Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures.
They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad.
Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time.
Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever.
He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed.
Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them.
By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family.
This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean.
Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.
Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home.
“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research.
“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-”
“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled.
It couldn’t end like this.
He’d be too late if he stayed.
“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack.
“Shoko, they don’t-”
“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.”
“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion.
“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.
He didn’t have the seconds to debate it.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship.
“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.”
“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander.
Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to.
And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from.
He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator.
Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home.
Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.
He should make it.
Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers.
If only he could send out a fucking transmission.
He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out.
Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.
But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too.
When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected.
He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his.
Some part of him felt like it was all light years away.
Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?
Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day?
Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.
But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole.
Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls.
Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar.
He could do this.
Failing wasn’t an option.
Not after everything that had brought him here.
“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here.
But he hoped you could feel him.
That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet.
The landing fucking sucked.
Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you.
It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing.
“Are you okay? What the fuck is-”
Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief.
“Uh, could you give me a ride?”
Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder.
“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you.
“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over.
Gojo still had your number memorized.
Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him.
No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either.
But they did.
“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick.
“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.”
“Satoru?”
“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.”
Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit.
He was finished.
Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins.
Would you be happy to see him?
Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him?
He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel.
Was he too early?
Too late?
Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it.
He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there.
Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it.
And there it was.
Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him.
He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it.
His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had.
The one he hadn’t been there to give you.
You couldn’t be-
Someone tapped on his back.
He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.
“Dad?”
It wasn’t you.
Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he?
“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-”
“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-”
“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.”
Every word was a fresh punch to the gut.
A great grandfather.
He never even got to be a father.
Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids.
“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.
“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?”
Four months had been forty years.
Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done.
A fool masquerading as a man.
Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears.
Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all.
He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again.
Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection.
His children wouldn’t need him.
For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave.
“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.”
God, he felt like he was going to die right now.
Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed.
“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-”
It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time.
“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.
Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.”
He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions.
Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there.
He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo.
Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach.
“You’re-”
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully.
“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”
“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.”
And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.
Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life.
“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand.
“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now.
“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.
Because right now, he was filled with hate.
Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.
He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe.
Mostly though, he hated himself.
“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”
Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.
Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.
“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.”
She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.
To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet.
Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.
Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person.
Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.
And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed.
He would never get to know.
His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it.
His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back.
A loving fiancé and father.
Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day.
your stoner best friend choso and you are deeeep in sexual tension, you are his girl, but not really his girl. cuddling, forehead kisses, being glued to eachothers hip, it eventually simmers down until neither of you can take it anymore. (my favourite work i've done so far) (mdni, smut with a shit ton of plot, angst (not really), fluff, comfort.)
wc: 16k || art creds: @/einrvji
smut with so, so much plot.
choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.
he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.
you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.
somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.
after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.
you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.
but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.
it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.
you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”
and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.
and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.
choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.
you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.
because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.
and you? you love him. maybe too much.
you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.
maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.
it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.
you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.
but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.
there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.
it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.
maybe not forever.
~
the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.
bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.
you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.
he’s on the couch. he always is.
slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.
until he sees you.
choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.
“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”
and just like that, you’re home.
you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.
“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”
he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.
“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”
he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.
your heart stutters.
“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”
you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.
“you’re stoned.”
he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”
you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.
the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.
he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.
“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.
“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.
he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.
“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.
you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”
“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”
you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”
he hums. “don’t hit the same.”
you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.
you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.
so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.
you stay like that. for a long time
later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.
you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.
his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.
you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.
“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.
you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”
he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”
you grin. “exactly.”
he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.
like you always will.
when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.
he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.
“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”
he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.
“always.”
you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.
you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.
but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”
you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.
“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.
he doesn’t let go.
you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.
choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.
you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.
he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.
“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.
“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.
he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.
and there it is again. home.
“this party was kinda ass,” you say.
“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”
your stomach flips.
but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.
“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”
choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”
“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.
“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”
you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”
“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”
“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”
he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”
you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”
“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”
“always.”
his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.
“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”
you blink.
“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”
you laugh. “well someone has to.”
“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”
your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.
he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.
he says it like it’s just the truth.
“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.
his thumb strokes your arm, slow.
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.
he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.
you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.
he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.
they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.
how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.
they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.
you’re not together.
but this? this is something else.
“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.
you nod, curled into his side.
“you?”
“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”
“i never do.”
he hums, already drifting.
you close your eyes.
"night, cho."
"night, babe."
and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.
right where you’re supposed to be.
~
the sun’s too fucking bright.
choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.
his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.
he’s never rushing.
the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.
he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.
he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.
“yo.”
he looks up.
toji.
posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.
choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”
“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.
choso shrugs. “feel fine.”
“late night?”
“always.”
toji grins. “bet.”
choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.
they’re not close, but they’re good.
“you throw last night?” toji asks.
“yeah. packed out.”
“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”
choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”
“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”
“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”
“tragic.”
they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.
“how much you make off the door?”
“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”
toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”
choso snorts. “nah.”
“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”
“i’m not good with rules.”
“fuck rules.”
choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”
“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.
that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.
“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.
“yeah. lab.”
“tough.”
“i'm so fucking hungover.”
toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”
choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”
toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.
“y/n?”
“yeah.”
a beat.
“you guys together now or what?”
choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”
toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”
“why?”
“you’re always with her.”
“yeah.”
“you sleep in the same bed?”
choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”
toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”
“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.
“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”
choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.
because it isn’t like that.
not yet.
but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.
“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”
choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.
he knows,
he knows.
~
choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.
there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.
his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.
his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.
[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn
[10:38am] choso: chem
[10:38am] you: ew
[10:38am] choso: yea
[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored
[10:39am] choso: wya
the response comes fast.
[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.
choso smiles.
it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.
he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.
~
the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.
perfect.
you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.
you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”
he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.
“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.
he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.
you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.
he doesn’t notice.
or maybe he does.
but he doesn’t say anything.
“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.
“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."
you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”
“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”
you shrug. “probably.”
he grins.
you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.
you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.
choso looks over. blinks once.
his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”
“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”
“your brand is slutty candy princess?”
you flash him a wink. “you know it.”
he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”
“you’d like it.”
“maybe.”
you both laugh.
but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.
“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”
choso blinks. shifts.
“how’d you know that?”
“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”
he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”
“oh yeah?”
“yeah.”
you hum. “what’d you say?”
he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”
you nod.
but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”
choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”
you don’t speak for a second.
then—
“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”
he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”
you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”
“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”
it knocks the air out of you a little.
you don’t reply.
he doesn’t push.
instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.
“you mind?” he asks.
you shake your head. “go for it.”
he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.
you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.
he passes it to you.
you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.
“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.
“you always smell like sleep and candy.”
“that a compliment?”
“you know it is.”
you smile.
and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.
he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.
you don’t say anything.
you don’t have to.
“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.
you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”
he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”
“toji’s place?”
“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”
you make a face. “ew.”
he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”
“what kinda party is it?”
he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”
“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.
“come anyway.”
you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”
he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”
“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.
“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”
“classic.”
“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”
you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”
“better lighting.”
“less vomit.”
he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”
you blink at him. “so what?”
“you comin’?”
you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”
he gives you a look. “me."
“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”
“me.”
“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”
he smirks. “you already know.”
you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”
“what an honor.”
“you’re welcome.”
you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.
there’s something warm in your chest.
like always.
“what time’s it at?” you ask.
“late.”
“when are we getting there?”
“later.”
you smile. “as always.”
“as always,” he echoes.
you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.
he doesn’t notice.
but you do.
you always do.
~
the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.
shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.
because you’re painting.
your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.
you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.
the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.
but this time’s different.
this one’s for him.
you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.
maybe it’s because you love him.
not like that.
not yet.
but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.
in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.
in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.
you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.
outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.
you aren’t ready yet.
but you will be.
because he asked.
because you always go when he asks.
by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.
there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.
“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”
“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.
you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.
“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.
a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.
“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.
“two,” you shoot back.
you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.
“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”
“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"
“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”
you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”
“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.
“girl.”
you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.
“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like, cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”
maki snorts. “you faked it?”
“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”
shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”
“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.
“they’ll live,” maki says.
you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.
“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”
you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”
they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.
“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”
nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”
you don’t answer.
you don’t have to.
because you just spotted him.
across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.
he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.
you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”
you beeline straight to him.
he sees you coming, of course. always does.
“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”
you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.
“hey, babe.”
he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look real hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”
you grin. “you’re high.”
“and you’re a fucking bombshell.”
“so high.”
gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying shit like that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he would fuck him if he was gay.”
“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.
“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.
“a sweet menace,” choso adds.
gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”
“godspeed,” you tell him.
choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”
you nod. “the girls are wild tonight.”
“when aren’t they?”
you smile. “mmm. party’s kinda gross, though.”
he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”
“i miss your parties.”
he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week, tuesday.”
“a tuesday party?”
“hell yeah.”
you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.
without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.
he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.
you hand it to him wordlessly.
his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.
he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.
“you painted this?”
you nod.
“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”
“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”
he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.
then,
“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”
you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”
he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”
you blink.
he says it so casually. so high. so him.
like it’s just a fact.
you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.
but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.
“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.
choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.
he flicks it once. flame bursts up.
“perfect,” he mumbles.
“it works?”
“better than my soul, babe.”
you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.
you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”
his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.
he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”
you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”
he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.
then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.
“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”
choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”
you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.
“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.
he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.
then he’s alone.
not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.
the lighter’s still in his hand.
and it won’t stop looking like you.
'she fuckin’ made this.'
that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.
(which you do.)
'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.
he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.
'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'
it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.
he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.
he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.
he pauses there.
your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.
his thumb hovers over the screen.
“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”
sukuna.
choso glances up. “am fried.”
sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”
choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”
they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.
“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”
choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”
“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”
he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.
sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”
“yeah.”
“you look like you just had a vision.”
choso finally meets his eye.
“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”
sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”
choso doesn’t answer.
instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.
sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”
the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.
he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.
it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.
“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.
the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.
“what’s up, man?”
choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.
he holds out his phone.
“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”
the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.
it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.
looking up at him.
choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”
the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”
choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.
the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.
the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.
“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”
choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.
then finally:
“nah.”
the guy hums. “girlfriend?”
he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”
he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.
“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”
the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”
choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.
“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”
“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.
“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”
the guy snorts. “fair.”
the needle hits skin.
choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.
“like what?”
he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.
choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.
“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”
the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.
“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”
“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.
“nah.”
another pause.
“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”
a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.
“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”
choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”
“yeah?”
he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”
the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”
choso closes his eyes.
“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.
just for him.
~
the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.
“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”
choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.
“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.
the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.
and fuck.
there it is.
your eyes.
wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.
for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.
he just stares.
it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.
yo.
he’s obsessed.
like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.
he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.
god.
you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.
it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.
but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.
“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”
“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”
the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”
“fair.”
he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.
she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.
nah.
this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.
“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.
“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”
“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”
choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.
he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.
“appreciate you, man.”
“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”
he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.
but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.
not of what they are.
but of what you mean.
upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.
maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.
but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.
he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.
sleeve tugged down.
lighter in his pocket.
eyes on his arm, just for him.
~
later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.
you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.
“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”
you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.
“hey, ma.”
his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.
“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”
“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”
“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”
“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”
“amen,” sukuna snorts.
“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.
they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.
“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”
“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.
“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”
“deadass.”
“was it… alive?”
“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”
“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”
choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”
“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.
“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”
“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.
“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”
“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.
“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.
“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.
the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.
you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.
“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”
“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”
“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”
“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.
“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.
“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.
“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”
you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.
“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.
“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.
and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.
~
the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.
choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.
“you good to dip?”
you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.
he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.
“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”
gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”
you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.
“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.
sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”
“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.
they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.
“get on.”
you blink, amused. “seriously?”
“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”
you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.
“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.
he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”
you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.
he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.
his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.
but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.
he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.
you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.
you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.
“hey.”
you look over, curled on your side facing him.
his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.
“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”
your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”
he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”
you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”
“feels like it.”
he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.
you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.
he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.
“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”
you press your face into his chest.
“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”
choso’s quiet for a second.
then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”
you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”
he exhales slow.
“fuck, ma.”
“what?”
“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”
you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.
his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.
“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”
he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.
“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”
you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.
the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.
his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.
his voice comes again, quieter this time.
“gonna keep that lighter forever.”
you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”
“not even gonna let gojo touch it."
“definitely good.”
his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.
you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.
his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.
“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.
you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.
his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.
and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.
just for him.
just for tonight.
just for you.
~
~
it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.
he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.
“yo, choso.”
doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.
that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.
he pulls one earbud out and slows.
toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.
“what’s up?” choso mutters.
“you got a sec?”
choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.
“…yeah,” he says anyway.
they walk.
they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.
“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.
“same shit.”
“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”
choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”
toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”
he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.
“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”
choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.
“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”
he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”
choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.
“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.
toji hums. “you sure?”
choso looks over.
“what’s your point?”
“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”
“we’re not.”
“but you hang out every day.”
“yeah.”
“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”
choso’s mouth tightens.
toji grins like he caught something.
“so she’s single?”
choso stares straight ahead.
“…yeah.”
“good to know.”
silence.
the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.
“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.
“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.
“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”
no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.
“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”
he doesn’t wait for a reply.
“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”
“don’t do this.”
choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.
“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”
he tilts his head.
“so which is it?”
choso breathes slow through his nose.
“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.
but he doesn’t.
“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”
“what’s that mean?”
“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.
“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, never on the lips.
because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.
“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.
“yeah,” choso says, quieter than the first time, barely above a whisper.
toji gives him one last nod.
“fairs,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.
just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.
he knew before he asked.
and now he’s coming.
because choso left the door wide open.
and you?
you’re free to walk through it.
~
choso’s room, late in the afternoon.
your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.
his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. you always do.
“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.
“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.
toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.
you bite your lip. thumbs hover.
then you type:
you [3:07pm]: oh, so ur stalking me noww?
you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.
“who you texting?”
you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.
“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”
he tilts his head.
“someone, huh.”
you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”
he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.
“that toji?”
your breath stalls.
“…yeah.”
choso stares at you. unreadable.
“why?”
“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”
he hums, low.
'not buying it.'
“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”
“what’d he say?”
“choso—”
“lemme see.”
he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.
“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.
“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.
“he said i was cute, that's it.”
his jaw ticks.
“you flirting with him?”
“what?”
“you heard me.”
you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.
“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”
“what does that matter?”
“it matters.”
his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”
“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”
“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting, he’s circling, you don’t see it?”
you blink.
“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”
you freeze.
the silence that falls is loud.
so loud.
your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.
“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.
“never mind.”
“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”
he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.
you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.
choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.
“why?”
he doesn’t answer, but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.
because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.
you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.
“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.
instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.
“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.
“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”
“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”
his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too.
“how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”
“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.
he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.
“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.
“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you say anything?”
choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.
“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.
“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”
he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”
his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.
he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.
“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.
you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.
“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.
“i’m fucking in love with you.”
your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.
“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”
you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.
“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”
you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.
“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”
you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.
“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”
his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.
“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”
his eyes widen. “no—”
“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”
“y/n, it’s not like that—”
“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”
choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.
he swallows.
and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.
he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.
there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.
of your eyes.
staring straight back at you.
your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.
choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:
“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.
“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”
your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.
“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”
your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.
he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.
“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”
you’re still staring at the tattoo.
he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.
“you think i’d get your fucking eyes tatted on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.
his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”
his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.
but he lets it go anyway.
“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.” your breath catches.
“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”
he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of that party. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like ive already lost you, and it kills me.”
his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.
“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”
you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.
and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.
and then he doesn’t anymore.
he crashes into you like he’s starving.
the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.
your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.
his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.
“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”
your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.
“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”
his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.
you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.
“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”
“choso.”
he shudders.
“again.”
“cho!.”
he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.
and fuck, you let him.
you’ve wanted this just as long, you've needed him just as bad.
and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.
you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.
choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.
he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.
“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.
you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.
“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”
he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.
and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.
his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”
you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks. slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.
“choso…”
he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.
your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.
he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.
“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”
your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.
“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”
his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”
his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.
and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.
his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.
he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”
“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”
and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.
“fuck, sweetheart… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”
his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.
he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.
“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”
you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?
you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.
he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.
“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”
~
raging music throbs and the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.
and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.
gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”
“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”
“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”
“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.
“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”
“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.
“you okay?”
you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.
“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”
“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”
“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”
“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”
“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.
“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.
you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”
he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.
suguru's stupidly long hair always gets in the way ! ☆
suguru's hips snapped deep and deliberate, thick cock dragging your walls raw, veins pulsing against that sweet spot that made your toes curl. sweat beaded on his brow, honey eyes half-lidded in bliss, but fuck—those damn strands kept sweeping across your face like annoying spiderwebs. you groaned, turning your head, one hand batting weakly at the mess.
"sugu—ngh—tie your hair back! it's in my fucking face!" you whined mid-moan, pussy clenching around him despite the irritation. his rhythm didn't falter, that devilish smirk curling slow as he leaned in closer, deliberately grinding deep to bury himself balls-deep. more hair tumbled forward, brushing your lips, your nose—tickling your eyelashes.
"nah." simple, smug, his voice a velvet growl. he shifted, bracing on his elbows to hover inches away, letting the full cascade drape over both your faces like a private tent. strands stuck to your sweat-slick skin, one long lock trailing right down your cheek as you gasped on a thrust. "deal with it. i like how it looks."
you shoved at his chest, laughing breathy and pissed, nails scraping his pecs. "asshole—ahh!—move it! i can't even s-see you!" hips bucked up defiant, chasing the stretch anyway, slick squelching loud as you milked him. he chuckled dark, low rumble vibrating where you joined, then he shook his head like a damn dog, sending a fresh wave of hair whipping across your eyes, your cheeks, even tangling in your lashes.
"see? perfect view now." he taunted, pace turning punishing—snapping harder, faster, the wet slap of skin echoing. his hair flailed wild now, sticking to your tits, draping your joined bodies in inky chaos.
you spat another strand off your tongue, half-giggling half-moaning, free hand yanking a fistful of it. "fuck you—it's annoying! tie. it. up!"
"make me." geto grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand—his hair spilling over your bound arms like ropes. he dove down, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking a bruise while thrusting brutal, cockhead bullying your cervix. more hair smothered your face, breaths hot and shared in the humid tangle.
"oh god—harder!" you arched, traitorous body betraying you, walls fluttering as pleasure coiled vicious. his free hand snaked between you, fingers pinching your clit mean—rubbing fast circles while his hair curtained everything, world narrowing to sweat, strands, and his relentless dick splitting you open.
"th-this would feel even better if your hair wasn't in my mouth!"
you sputtered, batting it away, clenching around him in spite—earning a hiss from his lips. hips bucked up defiant, chasing that building heat despite yourself, slick gushing around his base.
geto grinned feral, one hand pinning your thigh wider, the other fisting the sheets by your head to hover even lower. more hair cascaded—full curtain now, cocooning you both in his scent. "don't i look good with it down?" he purred, voice velvet mock-hurt, slowing to a torturous grind that kissed your cervix. "thought you loved my pretty hair. or do you want me in a bun like some salaryman?" he tossed his head again, strands slapping your forehead light, then licked a stripe up your neck.
"you're— aahnnn!" you moaned, half-laugh half-groan, fingers yanking a handful of that offending mane—pulling hard enough to arch his back. he growled approval, pace ramping vicious, hair flying wild now like a black storm. "say it—'your hair's hot, suguru. fuck me through it.'" his free hand snuck down, thumb circling your clit rough—piercing glinting as he rubbed.
pleasure snapped vicious, your sass crumbling. "fine—hot—fuck, suguru! cumming!" walls spasmed vice-tight, milking him as you shattered, squirting messy around his pistoning cock. hair blinded you through tears, but who cared—bliss whited everything.
he followed with a guttural "fuck—take it," flooding you hot and thick, ropes painting your womb while his hair draped your heaving chest. collapsed half on you, he smirked through the strands, nipping your lip.
"see? perfect accessory."
you shoved his sweaty locks aside, panting grin. "next time: put it in a damn bun. or no pussy."
he laughed, already hardening inside of you again. "dealbreaker."
The rise of Greek and German nationalism are the most cookie cutter versions of white supremacy to exist and to look away from it is 1000 percent to condone it.
It affects everyone with a conscious and working brain.
I've never given a fuck about yalls blog themes even once.
*handing you the mic* You think white supremacy is BAD. RIGHT???
Small observations on the ROMH Till cover (and Karma)
I did this pointing out the obvious bc I'm tired of seeing people saying these covers are for Mizi when Vivinos herself hasn't made any content referencing his past crush on her since "Remember everything" came out and it was confirmed that Till no longer has romantic feelings for her.
Not to mention the lyrics of the songs don't fit with his relationship with Mizi, not even from Till's pov. He would never ask Mizi to "make him her god" bc he was aware that she loved someone else and never cared, he never wanted to be reciprocated romantically by her like he wanted to be reciprocated by Ivan, getting angry whenever he denied their connection (like when Ivan "rejected" the flower crown he tried to give him or when he insulted him by calling him a loser and indirectly denying that they were friends)
These things made Till angry bc he CARED, and he realized that Ivan cared too when it was too late.
every time someone writes my baby jean kirstein as a jerk fuck boy, cheater, toxic, disrespectful to women and extremely popular, an angel loses his wings; because he would literally be the og yearner, he's a big loser who thinks he's a popular guy, bro could never use women, he would be a hopeless romantic, a soft spoken man, nervous around the girl he likes, respectful, overprotective, he would always put the person he loves first, probably the best boyfriend/husband in this world.
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
jacobvanloon
snowghoul
