Archive of Our Own

It’s a Friday night and Shiwoo hasn’t been to the rodeo in over ten years.

That is to say, he hasn’t stepped foot in his hometown in over ten years. The last decade has passed him by while he lay buried under mountains of paperwork, sat behind the wheel of his patrol car or praying his next case wouldn’t be a cold one. Truth is, police work doesn’t suit him. He’s good and it pays well enough, but it’s not what he was bred for.

Dirt roads and wooden fences, the smell of leather and the glint of shiny metal belt buckles, the back of a horse. As fond as he is of his tailored suits and designer winter coats, and as loath as he is to admit it, he has missed this.

The arena is small but full; sizzling with energy as the audience claps and cheers at the opening performance, whistling and singing along to an old country song, electric as the cloudy sky outside, crackling with flashes of lightning, a storm brewing.

Familiar is the smell of manure, too, and not unpleasant, not yet. It will be later, when he will try to scrub it off his skin under the hot jet of the showerhead, and it will still cling to his nostrils anyway.

He’s in town for a funeral, technically. His father’s. He was very old and very ill and everybody was just waiting for the day, so Shiwoo is not very upset. Two days ago he buried his old man in the cemetery behind the Divine Resurrection Church under a gravestone with an inscription that read Cowboys Never Die , just as his will had required. Shiwoo smirked at it, after the priest had gone and his mother had sat on a stone bench to rest her swollen feet and her even more swollen eyes, and he was hit by a sudden wave of nostalgia. He remembered sitting in his mother’s lap behind the metal fence of a rodeo arena, eyes pinned to the cowboy hat inside the box, waiting for the nod that would start his father’s show.

Bareback bronc was his father’s game, but tonight is the bull rider's carnival. The rodeo clowns usher the opening performers out and the loudspeakers buzz with the host’s voice enthusiastically introducing the first rider and bull of the night. The beast is huge, a mountainous bulk of brown and white contained by the steel fence of the bucking chute; the guy is a sturdy looking man, tall for a rider, but strong.

“Ya ride a bull, strength don’t matter,” his father once told him. “Ya gotta believe you’re better than the son of a gun.”

At the time, Shiwoo didn’t understand what he meant. Now, as he watches the rider flip in the air and land on his ass at the two second mark, Shiwoo starts to get it.

The crowd screams as the bull keeps bucking and comes dangerously close to kicking the fallen rider’s head, but the bullfighters are quick to distract the animal, giving the rider time to get to his feet and get the hell out of there.

He isn’t invested in the competition, but he can’t ignore the tingling sensation at his fingertips, almost as if he’s itching to grab onto the handle of a bull rope. Adrenaline gets to his head quickly, something that always got him in trouble at the police academy. He can’t help it if he learnt to ride a bucking horse before he developed good sense.

More riders try their luck this go-round and a few of them manage to stay on the bull for eight whole seconds.

Shiwoo steps out for a smoke and some fresh air, before he gets too excited. The stench starts to get to him and he’s glad he decided to wear an old pair of jeans, although he regrets not changing his dress shirt into something cheaper and expendable.

The air outside is sweet and heavy with rain that hasn’t fallen yet, some light still clinging to the sky even though the sun has set hours ago. The car park behind the arena is awash with a pale blue hue, and here the rambling of the host isn’t so loud.

He lights a cigarette, taking a long, soothing first drag with his head tipped back towards the clouds, letting his eyes flutter shut as thunder rumbles under his feet.

And then there’s the sound of laughter and someone shushing someone else, hushed voices and the soft thud of a body hitting what Shiwoo assumes is the hood of a car. Ten years working as a detective have made Shiwoo a nosy person, so he lets his curiosity guide his feet towards the voices while making as little noise as possible – as little noise as the gravel allows, anyway.

He only has to reach the corner of that side of the building and tilt his head slightly, before he spots two figures leaning against the side of an SUV. Two boys, one taller than the other, pushing the shorter one against the tinted windows of the vehicle and shoving his tongue right down his throat.

Shiwoo isn’t hiding, exactly, though he doubts he’ll be seen from his position, especially considering how taken the two boys are with each other’s spit.

The shorter boy has greasy black hair and his right arm all wrapped up in white tape.

“C’mon,” he breathes against the taller boy’s mouth, smirking, “for good luck.”

The taller boy, who has a mean buzz cut and narrow slits for eyes, mutters something back Shiwoo doesn’t catch, but it must be what the other one had been meaning to hear, because he smiles and kicks his leg out. Shiwoo notices he’s wearing black chaps with a bright red decorative design and fringes that swing with the movement. Then the boy with the buzz cut shoves a hand down his pants and kisses him again as he moans.

Shiwoo’s mouth hangs dumbly open for a while, until he feels the cigarette hanging from his lips begin to tilt towards a fatal free fall and he remembers himself. This is hardly the first time he stumbles upon two people going at it – endless stakeouts in back alleys or outside nightclubs flash through his mind – but it feels different now. There’s a voyeuristic quality to it, now that he isn’t doing it for work, that makes the act somewhat perverted. Even so, or perhaps because of it, he can’t tear his eyes away from the two boys.

The shorter boy gasps and leans his head back against the car, letting the other tug the collar of his red shirt open and suck on his throat like a starved animal.

It doesn’t last long, the boy’s cry when he comes drowned by the roar of the audience as, surely, another rider was bucked off his bull.

Shiwoo doesn’t hear the words they exchange as they wipe the mess from their hands and fix up their clothes, but he watches as the boy with black hair rushes back inside through a door labeled STAFF ONLY . The other boy stays behind for a moment, taking a deep breath and running a hand over his shaved head.

Shiwoo drops his cigarette to the ground and ducks behind the corner before the boy starts looking around. Half of it went unsmoked.

***

Back inside, the audience seems even more lively than when he left. As he climbs the stands to find a comfortable seat, he catches several people excitedly pointing towards the bucking chute and making comments about the next rider.

“Finally! ’S his turn!”

“Who’s he ridin’?”

“Lord Jesus Christ, lookit the size ‘a that thing!”

Shiwoo turns his gaze towards the chute and, sure enough, a colossal black bull is squeezed between the metal bars of the fence, mounted by a scrawny looking kid with a black cowboy hat.

“And now, the man y’all been waitin’ for!” The host announces, dragging all of his vowels, the crowd cheering in response. “He’s our defendin’ champion! Tonight he’s ridin’ the wild, the untamed, the undefeated… Heeeaaartache!”

Another roar erupts from the audience, the bull apparently having as many fans as the rider, and the fighters surround the chute, anticipation a tangible thing Shiwoo could almost touch with the tips of his fingers, if only he reached out.

“Everybody give a real warm welcome to Tōji Zen’in!”

The crowd is the loudest it has been all night, whistling and crying out the rider’s name, clapping their hands until they’re red. Beyond the bullfighters, behind the gate, the black cowboy hat tips in a nod. The chute is opened.

Immediately, the bull rushes forward, kicking his hind legs, bucking and jumping in a circle like a live wire.

One second.

The rider lifts on the bull rope and slides his hips to this side of the bull or the other, following the spin, letting the animal twist in the air, only to shuffle right back into place, his free arm coming close to the bull’s neck a couple times but never touching it.

Four seconds.

He is a rag doll with one hell of a death grip on the rope. Heartache rears, his tail whipping in wild circles; the rider pushes his heels against the bull’s flank to spur him. Only now Shiwoo notices his black chaps with bright red designs: the boy he just saw get a handie ‘round the back.

Seven seconds.

The bull spins again, jumping in a belly roll so high the rider is knocked off balance, one leg swinging over the beasts’ hump. He is headed towards the ground.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer announces the end of the ride just as the rider’s hand slides out of the rope and Heartache gives him one final shove, flipping him over and causing him to fall on his front.

The crowd howls, many people standing up from their seats and swaying along to the celebratory music.

“He’s done it again!” The host’s voice booms through the speakers, his accent growing thicker with excitement. “Tōji Zen’in, ladies and gentlemen! Heartache has been conquered!”

Appearing to have heard that, the bull charges. Tōji Zen’in is quick to jump on his feet and rush towards the fence. The bullfighters distract the animal, who makes a lap around the arena as Tōji climbs the fence and drops into the open arms of an older man, probably his coach.

As Heartache heads to the exit chute, the clowns rush back to the center of the arena and music fills the air. Tōji Zen’in was the last rider of the night and, after his score is announced and he is proclaimed victor, the bullfighters and wranglers leave the arena, leaving the clowns and other performers to entertain the audience well into the night.

***

Shiwoo sees Tōji Zen’in again at the bar that same night. The boy with the buzz cut is with him again but, instead of sharing spit and humping each other like dogs in heat, they sit at a sensible distance as a small crowd of cowboys is gathered around the champion, patting him on the back and congratulating him for yet another incredible ride.

Shiwoo has to admit, it was spectacular. The bull the boy rode was a real honker. Even though it has been over a decade since Shiwoo last saw someone bull riding, he can confidently admit, the kid has skill.

The crowd eventually disperses, spreading thin through the hazy bar to share a drink and a smoke with close friends or try their luck at a game of cards. The whirring sound of the mechanical bull to the side of the bar is mostly drowned out by the loud live music and by laughter as drunk old men are sent flying.

Shiwoo sits at the other end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a cigarette, lazily circling the rim of his glass with the tip of his middle finger. The lights are low, blue and red strobe lights cast colorful shadows over the small stage where a young woman is singing her heart out about a cowboy who rides and rides.

Now that he can see him more clearly, he notices a vertical scar on the corner of Tōji’s mouth, the raised skin pulling at his cheek as he speaks. Shiwoo wonders if he got it from a bull.

The boy with the buzz cut meets his gaze from across the bar only briefly, but it’s still enough for Shiwoo’s heart to start pounding in his chest with a mix of adrenaline and anxiety. Has he been caught?

Tōji focuses all of his attention on the other boy, now that he’s free from the eyes and hands of older men, and he slowly – very slowly – leans closer and closer, until their shoulders are touching. The music fades slowly, the singer gets off the stage and the bar is quiet long enough for Shiwoo to catch a portion of the boys’ conversation.

“Was gonna ride Bones,” Tōji says, sighing into his glass. “The old man wouldn’t let me.”

The other boy chuckles. “Heartache was good enough.”

“Heartache,” Tōji echoes, snorting. “Who the fuck names a bull Heartache ?”

“What would you name one?”

Tōji blinks up at the ceiling, tapping his chin with his index finger and pretending to be lost in thought.

Then, he turns back to the boy and declares, “Sukuna!”

The other boy shoves Tōji to the side and he wobbles on his stool, laughing. Shiwoo would assume Sukuna to be the kid’s name even if he wasn’t a detective.

A group of men howl around the pool table, balls clattering against each other loudly, even when the music picks up again – stereo, not live – this time a slow bossa nova groove. The song suits the moody lighting better than the country ballads had, and Shiwoo finds himself grinding the butt of his cigarette into a metal ashtray only to light up another, inexplicably drawn to the conversation between the two boys. He doesn’t bother investigating the reason why, both because he’s off the clock and because he thinks there are worse things to be drawn to.

They are both nice to look at, so Shiwoo looks.

The taste of ash and tobacco settles heavy on his tongue and he washes it down with another sip of his whiskey.

The boy with the buzz cut – Sukuna? – downs his drink and leans closer to Tōji, the hand that was holding his glass now sliding under the bar. Shiwoo can’t see it, but he can imagine it landing on Tōji’s thigh, the flex of Sukuna’s forearm indicating he must have given it a good squeeze.

“I’m takin’ a leak,” he announces, flashing his teeth in a grin. “Then let’s get outta here.”

Tōji doesn’t answer, but Shiwoo can see his cheeks color even under the blue glow of the overhead light. He’s pretty.

He realizes he’s been staring for too long when Tōji notices it too. He turns his head towards him, and Shiwoo isn’t fast enough to look away. To his surprise, Tōji doesn’t seem bothered.

His eyes, two dark orbs peeking through uneven black bangs, dart across Shiwoo’s face, the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, which is unusually free from the confines of a neatly buttoned up collar and tightly tied tie. His mouth curls in an appreciative smile. He’s shamelessly checking him out like he’s not waiting for his boyfriend to get back from the bathroom so they can go fuck somewhere.

Shiwoo doesn’t exactly have the moral high ground, so he just offers him a half-smile.

“Nice ride,” he says. Tōji’s eyes find his again and hold Shiwoo’s gaze.

“Thanks. New in town? Haven’t seen ya ‘round these parts before.”

Shiwoo takes a lazy drag from his cigarette, remnants of adrenaline lingering in his blood, now that the boy is talking to him. There’s no mistaking the hungry look in Tōji’s eyes. If the kid wasn’t already otherwise engaged, Shiwoo has no doubt how the night would go.

“Something like that.”

No need to tell this reckless bull rider his life story. He’s only going to stay in town for a week, anyway.

Sukuna returns to Tōji’s side, but Tōji doesn’t tear his eyes from Shiwoo.

Shiwoo feels his excitement grow as Sukuna stares at him, draping his arm possessively over Tōji’s shoulders. Shiwoo wants to laugh: only moments ago he seemed too shy to even brush shoulders with him. The alcohol must have made him forget the rowdy crowd of god-fearing, Bible-waving conservatives still around them, who keep throwing glances in Tōji’s direction and talking about the rodeo.

For a brief moment, Shiwoo wonders what would happen if they found out their favorite bull rider is fond of another boy. Then he has the sick urge to outright flirt with Tōji, just to see Sukuna’s reaction. He doesn’t, because he still has manners even if he's a greedy man and a thief, always willing to take whatever his sticky fingers happen to touch. Sometimes it’s someone else’s case that will help him climb the ladder, sometimes it’s a pretty face in a bar.

To his surprise, Sukuna smiles. He looks despicable, with the sharp cut of his eyes, his shaved head and, now that Shiwoo takes a better look at him, black lines of ink around his neck and wrists.

Shiwoo doesn’t know what the boys see, as they both keep staring at him, but he has the sudden impression that the scales have tipped in their favor, his earlier confidence knocked down a peg as Tōji and Sukuna both look at him like two predators stalking a prey.

“Let’s go,” Sukuna tells Tōji after a while, even while looking at Shiwoo.

Again, Tōji doesn’t answer. He slides off his stool and, grabbing his black cowboy hat from the bar and putting it on, he tips it in Shiwoo’s direction.

“See you around,” he drawls, voice low and suggestive. Shiwoo scoffs.

Once they’re gone, Shiwoo blinks rapidly and looks around as if he just woke up from a strange, vaguely erotic dream. Thankfully, nobody seems to be paying him any attention, not even the bartender, who is too busy quenching the thirst of a bunch of cowboys to mind Shiwoo’s business.

While he stumps out his cigarette, Shiwoo realizes the back of his neck is damp with sweat and his pants are slightly more uncomfortable than they have been all day.

***

Shiwoo is forced to wonder whether a higher power is toying with him, when he runs into Tōji Zen’in again, the next morning, while he’s visiting an old friend’s ranch.

Tōji spots him first, waving at him from the back of a horse, his black cowboy hat slightly tilted to one side of his head, a rope hanging loose from his other hand.

“You know Tōji?” His friend asks as Shiwoo nods his head towards the boy.

The weather is decidedly better than last night, warmer and brighter. The sun kisses Tōji’s golden skin like a lover would. Shiwoo tries not to mind the muddy grass under his soles too much, and avoids the puddles from last night’s rain as best he can.

“Saw him at the rodeo,” Shiwoo says, shrugging nonchalantly. “Congratulated him at the bar afterwards. He’s good, isn’t he?”

His friend clicks his tongue. “At bull ridin’, maybe. Try ‘n get him ta do anythin’ else.”

Shiwoo chuckles and, even though he doesn’t know the guy at all, he doesn’t have a hard time picturing it. Sitting on the back of a beautiful piebald mare, trotting behind calves and a shepherd dog, Tōji is a caged animal. There’s a restlessness about him that Shiwoo sees in the twitching of his hand around the rope, in the glances he keeps throwing his way, in the easy, dangerous smile on his pretty lips.

“Bring ‘em about!” Shiwoo’s friend shouts at Tōji, before turning his back on the boy. He heads back towards his house, bumping Shiwoo’s shoulder as he walks. “Been nice seein’ ya, but I got some work ta do outta town. Ya can stay if ya like,” he suggests, grinning, “ride one ‘a my horses.”

Shiwoo scowls at him, then barks out a short laugh in mock offense. “Funny.”

The last time Shiwoo was on a horse he was twenty-one and high, the last summer before enrolling in the academy, which is a terrible combination all around. All Shiwoo remembers is that he was clutching the saddle horn with shaky hands, seeing purple worms floating around his face, and then he was on the ground, the horse’s hoof miraculously missing his knee but grazing his thigh and then his head, as it kicked its leg to try and get rid of the dead weight strapped to its flank.

Still, Shiwoo takes the offer to stay. He watches his friend’s pick-up truck depart in a cloud of dust, then grabs his cigarette box and a lighter from his breast pocket.

The shadow of Tōji’s mare covers him as he lights one up and he turns around to watch the boy perform all of his cowboy swagger for him, swaying his hips a little more than necessary as he circles Shiwoo holding the reins with one hand, the other hanging at his side.

“You stalkin’ me?” Tōji asks, smug as he was last night when he caught Shiwoo staring.

Smoke escapes from Shiwoo’s mouth in thin tendrils.

“Just visiting an old friend.”

Tōji pulls on the reins and the horse stops. “So y’ain’t new in town.”

“Cunning.”

The boy considers him from his vantage point, forearms now lazily overlapped on top of the saddle horn. Eventually, he says, “Didn’t catch your name.”

Shiwoo ponders lying, remaining vague, or simply avoiding the question. But if Tōji works for a man who knows Shiwoo, there really is no point when the kid could just ask his boss to confirm or deny.

“Gong,” he says in a low voice, tone as neutral as possible. For some reason, revealing his name to this boy feels like making a deal with the devil. “Shiwoo Gong.”

Tōji’s smile is a little less sharp as he dismounts. “Walk me to the stables?”

Shiwoo scoffs. “Afraid of the dark?” But he follows him anyway.

He can’t really say he’s surprised when, after Tōji has led the horse in her stall, the boy pushes him against the wall next to the door, his hat falling to the floor behind him as his hands slide up Shiwoo’s sides and settle on his shoulders.

Shiwoo is glad, once again, for his informal choice of clothing.

Tōji’s mouth latches onto his throat and Shiwoo lets him have his way, lets himself enjoy the searing heat of the tongue over his pulse point and the rough hands curling around the back of his neck.

He basks in that simple pleasure until he decides Tōji has had enough, and if he wants more, he’s going to have to work for it.

Cigarette still hanging from his lips, he asks, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Tōji stills, leans back his head and stares into his eyes at length. From up close, Shiwoo realizes his eyes are a deep bottle green, reflecting sunlight like shards of broken glass.

“Don’t worry about him,” Tōji purrs, standing on his tiptoes to lick a stripe up Shiwoo’s ear, catching his earlobe between his teeth.

Shiwoo gets his hands on the boy for the first time, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He tugs at it just hard enough to steer his head back, his other hand squeezing Tōji’s shoulder, something between permission and a command.

Tōji’s eyes widen slightly and Shiwoo can swear he sees his mouth salivating as he unceremoniously drops down to his knees.

His nimble fingers make quick work of Shiwoo’s belt, getting his jeans open quick and easy. Shiwoo is already half-hard when Tōji mouths at his dick over his briefs. He drags them down his thighs and swallows thickly at the sight, his hand already stroking Shiwoo to full hardness.

Shiwoo pets Tōji’s hair almost fondly, settling at the nape of his neck and rubbing in smooth circles. A horse huffs at the other end of the stables. He wonders how old Tōji is, which is probably a question he should have asked himself – or him, for that matter – a long time ago. He looks old enough and Shiwoo hopes it’s true.

“Be good,” He tells Tōji, grinding the butt of his smoke against the metal door, a second before the boy takes him in his mouth.

Shiwoo’s eyelids flutter as the velvety warmth of Tōji’s mouth envelops him. Heat curls low in his belly as Tōji flicks his tongue against the head of his cock. He pulls away only to lap at his balls, causing Shiwoo to jerk his head back and curse under his breath, his fingers digging into Tōji’s scalp. It’s amazing how the heavy scent of manure doesn’t kill his boner.

He looks down and the sight of his cock dark and heavy on Tōji’s face, precum and spit smeared on his scar, his cheek and one side of his nose is nearly enough to send him over the edge.

Fuck , the kid looks like sin.

To regain a semblance of dignity and control, he shoves one foot between Tōji’s knees, the sole of his boot pushing down on the hard bulge in his dirty jeans.

Tōji whines so prettily Shiwoo is almost overwhelmed by the impulse to break him in every way he can think of. Instead, he throws him an olive branch.

“You like this?” He presses his foot down at the same time Tōji takes him in his mouth again. His moan vibrates in his throat and Shiwoo’s dick throbs. The kid doesn’t look him in the eye, but he nods.

Shiwoo adjusts his foot so it sits somewhat comfortably against the front of Tōji’s jeans, the heel of his boot digging into the hinge of his crotch.

“Go on, then,” he says, tugging at his hair again, an encouragement to go faster. Permission to rut against his boot.

Tōji does. His hands hold Shiwoo’s hip bones in a bruising grip as he hollows his cheeks and sucks, his throat squeezing Shiwoo’s cock like his life depends on it. His hips move in a desperate search for friction and Shiwoo has to put up some resistance in order to give him something back.

It’s so good it could hurt.

Tōji’s waterline wets as he nuzzles his nose in the coarse hair at the base of Shiwoo’s cock, inhaling deeply and whining like he loves it. Maybe he does, maybe he’s pretending. It’s irrelevant to Shiwoo, when pleasure ties a knot in his guts and pulls at both ends, ready to snap at any second.

Tōji’s hips stutter embarrassingly fast, his moans gaining a higher pitch when Shiwoo jerks his own hips forward, fucking into the boy’s mouth while he holds his head with both hands. If there’s a next time, Shiwoo is going to treat him better.

As for now, he chases his release in the pliant heat of Tōji’s mouth. Tōji lets him, choking a little when the knot in Shiu’s gut unravels and he spills down the kid's throat. Tōji swallows it all, his Adam's apple bobbing ostentatiously.

Tucking himself back into his pants, wet and uncomfortable, he pulls back his foot and peers down at the damp spot on the front of Tōji’s jeans. He grins.

“Liked it that much, huh?”

If possible, Tōji looks even prettier, glowering at him from below with his face red and tear-streaked. He rests his cheek against Shiwoo’s thigh, and Shiwoo allows it. Lets him catch his breath. He earned it.

Shiwoo’s hand is back on his nape, uncaring that Tōji’s hair is damp with sweat and in desperate need of a wash, and this, too, feels perverted to him.

Throughout his career, Shiwoo’s hands have been covered in blood and mud, all kinds of bodily fluids and chemicals, dirt and ash. Despite this, Tōji still feels like the dirtiest thing he’s ever touched and it has nothing to do with the state the kid is in.

“Good boy,” he remembers to say, almost as an afterthought, because Tōji was good. Tōji beams at him at the praise, and if he had a tail he would be wagging it.

As he rises to his feet, unbothered by the dirt on his knees, he shuffles closer to Shiwoo, their bodies touching and exchanging heat.

“Same time next week?” He says, a cocky smile back on his lips.

Shiwoo has no reason to say it, could lie if he wanted to but, instead, he inexplicably says, “Ain’t gon’ be here next week.”

The drawl takes even him by surprise, but he figures being back in his hometown and having just come down the throat of the prettiest young man he’s ever seen makes it easier to fall back into his accent, despite a decade of training himself out of it.

Tōji seems to like it very much, if the way he braves a peck to the corner of Shiwoo’s mouth is anything to go by.

“What about tomorrow night, then?”

Shiwoo scoffs at his audacity. “Won’t Sukuna get jealous?”

He expects Tōji to either drop his smile or put on a fake one. What he doesn’t expect is Tōji to simply shrug at the dig, his expression utterly unchanged.

“You’d like him, too,” he says simply.

Shiwoo isn’t sure he wants to open that particular can of worms. Sukuna looked downright intimidating, if Shiwoo was the kind of man to get intimidated. He was handsome in the way a tiger is: something nice to look at, but to ultimately stay the fuck away from.

Then again, so is Tōji, and here Shiwoo is.

“Maybe,” Shiwoo concedes.

Tōji giggles cheekily before he adds, “He a can chaser, though, but don’ tell ‘im I said that.”

Shiwoo shakes his head and laughs, pushing Tōji backwards more as an excuse to touch him again than anything else.

“Ain’t that a women’s sport?”

Snorting, Tōji says, “Nah.” Then, seeming to think better of it, he adds, “He don’t care.”

Against his better judgement, Shiwoo decides to bite. “Tomorrow night, mh? Where?”

“The rodeo! ‘M ridin’ again.”

Shiwoo’s eyebrows rise. “Yeah? Thought you won already.”

Tōji laughs, “This ain’t the PBR. We ride every weekend.”

“What about the can chasers?” Shiwoo asks, already putting another cigarette in his mouth.

Tōji’s eyes twinkle with amusement, then he lowers his voice, speaking conspiratorially. “We let ‘em ride in the mornin’.”

***

On Sunday, Shiwoo finds himself back at the rodeo. The morning crowd is not that different from the evening, but there are more children. Almost everyone is wearing their Sunday best, as most of them have come here straight from church.

This time, he isn’t shy about searching the crowd for Tōji; many of his fans are here and looking for him to snap a quick picture or get his autograph. Shiwoo finds it hilarious, since the guy isn’t even a professional, but smalltown boys tend to have smalltown idols.

He follows a group of people made up mostly of teenage girls in neat braids and men whose dreams of glory on the back of a bull have withered along with too many winters, and sure enough they lead him straight to his target. Tōji is wearing a black, long sleeved shirt, the same pair of jeans he was wearing yesterday – Shiwoo can tell by the shape of the brown stains on his knees he got while sucking him off in the stables – and his usual black cowboy hat, which Shiwoo begins to suspect is glued to his head. His boots are black with the same red designs as the chaps he wore while bull riding two days ago.

When Tōji lifts his gaze from a blushing teenage girl’s face, after taking a picture with her, and sees Shiwoo, his smile becomes something wild and mean.

Shiwoo, no better than him, finds immense satisfaction in watching Tōji dismiss his groupies in favor of stepping in front of him, hand sliding behind his back to guide him somewhere more private.

“Didn’t think ya’d come,” Tōji teases, and Shiwoo wants to say, me neither . Adrenaline is a bitch of a habit to kick when you have no control over what makes your blood flow and your dick hard.

“I was curious,” he admits, strangely honest. 

Tōji walks leisurely towards the back of the arena, moving through fenced corridors beyond which calves pace and chase each other and horses are led in and out, saddled and readied for the races.

He stops at the entrance of a small tent; white tarp held up by thin metal tubes, with a sign reading RIDERS ROOM printed out on a sheet of paper and taped next to a small window.

Despite what Tōji claimed, barrel racing is mainly a women’s sport, here and everywhere else, and Shiwoo can’t help but feel like he’s intruding as he follows Tōji inside. The women don’t seem to mind too much, too busy conversing about last week’s races, sharing tips and inside jokes and asking after each other’s horses. Only a few turn their heads to take a better look at the man behind Tōji Zen’in, but none of them greet him. Tōji, on the other hand, looks perfectly at ease and waves at a couple of the cowgirls as he passes by them to get to the very back of the tent, where the only two guys competing are sat on a green iron bench.

Muffled music reaches the tent: the show has started.

Sukuna is fixing up the spurs on his boots, ignoring the other guy, a sickly looking dude who is talking his ear off and is evidently too slow to read the room.

As soon as Tōji approaches, Sukuna stands, not even bothering to excuse himself from the one sided conversation. He’s in an all-black outfit, his shiny satin shirt hugging his broad shoulders and the thin line of his waist so nicely Shiwoo has to make an effort not to stare.

There are no touches exchanged, besides Tōji’s friendly slap on his arm, but Shiwoo can see the want in their eyes, how they stand just a little too close for a little too long. He finds it kind of cute that they’re practically matching outfits. Then, Sukuna’s eyes find Shiwoo’s.

“Hi,” Shiwoo says conversationally, hands in the pockets of his pants, balled into fists because he’s itching for a smoke but he keeps seeing no smoking signs everywhere.

Sukuna doesn’t move from Tōji’s side as he reaches out his hand, offering it for Shiwoo to shake, while the other one rests on his shiny belt buckle.

“Gong, was it?”

Shiwoo’s eyes dart to Tōji, who simply grins at him.

“Yeah,” Shiwoo says cautiously, not knowing how much Tōji told Sukuna, unsure about how Sukuna would take it if he knew his boyfriend blew him less than twenty-four hours ago. Clearing his voice, he adds, a bit awkwardly, “Tōji mentioned you barrel race.”

Sukuna snorts, side eyeing Tōji with an exasperated look. Shiwoo is taken aback by how intimate the simple gesture is.

“Did he now,” Sukuna rolls his eyes, jerking his head towards the other boy. “That the word he used?”

Tōji claps his hands once. “Don’tcha gotta get on your horse?”

Although he is clearly just trying to change the subject, he isn’t wrong: as the music fades and the host’s voice reaches the tent, Shiwoo sees the other riders leave one by one, a few of them giving each other encouraging pats on the back, wishing each other good luck.

Yet Sukuna lingers in the room after everyone else has gone. With no one left to see them but Shiwoo, he wraps an arm around Tōji’s waist and pulls him close, until their chests are touching and Tōji’s arms drape effortlessly around his shoulders in a well-practiced embrace. Their mouths crash against each other with urgency, knowing well they don’t have nearly enough time for this before someone comes looking for Sukuna. Still, the kiss is dragged out, slow and wet as Tōji leans back slightly to lick at Sukuna’s upper lip, and then Sukuna dives right back in for more. Shiwoo feels strangely flattered to be trusted to see this passionate display, even if it is clearly a show performed entirely for his eyes. Even as they pull away, Sukuna leans back in for another quick peck.

“Break a leg,” Tōji whispers against Sukuna’s lips, too quiet and genuine to be part of the performance. 

Sukuna smiles, resting his forehead against Tōji’s for a brief moment, before detaching from him completely. He turns to face Shiwoo again, stepping closer to him, flashing his sharp white teeth.

“Watch ‘im for me while I’m busy?”

Once again, watching the two of them watch him, Shiwoo feels like a witless stag that stumbled upon the wrong forest paths during hunting season.

Hoping to appear more confident than he feels, he clicks his tongue. “Go chase some cans.”

Sukuna grins.

***

Shiwoo and Tōji find their way back to the arena and look for a seat among the audience, even though Shiwoo can tell the boy is disappointed he can’t wait for his lover back in the tent.

“We’ll meet outside,” he informs Shiwoo in a monotone, “after the race.”

If Shiwoo was a better man he would feel some amount of sadness and empathy for their situation. He was in a very similar one years ago, the only gay teenager for miles, it seemed like. Had to drive himself to the only gay bar in the county he knew of every Saturday night, spending all the money he earned from his part-time job at his uncle’s ranch on gas and flashy shirts he had to hide from his parents.

But Shiwoo is not a better man. He’s not even a good one, so he finds the secrecy enticing. It makes him feel five years younger.

Tōji slumps in his seat as the first race starts, the woman spurring her horse as it laps around the first and second barrel, then loses speed as it struggles to decide whether to go right or left of the third barrel before rounding it. The final sprint is fast, but that mistake cost her the high price of eighteen total seconds.

As the host announces the second rider, Shiwoo leans back against the backrest of his seat, not interested enough to pay attention to her. He fishes his cigarette box out of his pocket and fiddles with it, catching Tōji’s eye.

“Ya can’t smoke in here,” he states, as if Shiwoo didn’t know that already.

Shiwoo doesn’t respond beyond a mildly annoyed glance at him.

The third ride is admittedly spectacular, the woman leading her horse around those three barrels in a superb thirteen and seventy seconds, and without even having spurs on.

The audience isn’t as rowdy and loud as it was during the bull riding competition, but it still howls and cheers at its favorite.

Tōji’s voice comes unusually quiet when he says, “That’s the winner.”

Shiwoo eyes him: he’s hunched over, elbows resting on his knees with his hands between them, silky black hair falling over his eyes and the sides of his face, no longer smiling.

It doesn’t take a shrink to know what’s got him so subdued.

“What about Sukuna?” Shiwoo asks, perhaps a bit cruelly. Some sick part of him always enjoyed poking at sleeping bears. Or angry bulls. “Ain’t he any good?”

“He’s good,” Tōji snaps, immediately defensive. Shiwoo lifts an eyebrow in amusement, watching Tōji expertly managing his face back into placid neutrality. “Just not that fast.”

The pack in Shiwoo’s hand bends and he places it back into his pocket.

The fourth and fifth rides aren’t much to look at, both of them going over fifteen seconds.

As the host introduces the sixth rider, Shiwoo recognizes the guy who was talking at Sukuna back in the tent. His horse looks too small for him, or he looks too tall for his horse. He’s also excessive in his spurring, which both Shiwoo and Tōji don’t appreciate.

“Fuckin’ animal,” Tōji snarls and Shiwoo hums in agreement.

Shiwoo doesn’t stifle a scoff when the rider’s foot hits the second barrel and knocks it over, earning himself the event’s first penalty so far. They both sneer in grim satisfaction when he crosses the finish line, the board shows his time and it reads a heavy nineteen and seventy-eight seconds: the worst race so far

It’s Sukuna’s turn next. Tōji is instantly more alert, his back more straight, eyes laser focused on the entrance alley. Shiwoo follows his gaze.

Sukuna sits on the back of a stunning Quarter Horse with a pale grey coat, the mane and tail darker, an almost purple-ish splash of color. Sukuna is a dark silhouette on top of the mare, holding the reins firmly close to his core, the animal trotting sideways along the alley until the whistle blows.

Sukuna’s mare storms into the arena at full speed, rounding the first barrel and speeding towards the second. He spurs her on as she makes a good turn around the third barrel to complete the clover leaf formation. Tōji tenses at Shiwoo’s side, holding his breath for the last stretch, until the whistle announces the end of the race. Their eyes are immediately on the board, waiting for the numbers to show.

Tōji lets out a sad exhale.

“Told ya,” he mutters. Shiwoo’s eyes are still on the fourteen square seconds flickering on the board in bright red.

They stay in their seats until the end of the competition, although neither of them are really watching it. The crowd around them, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying their time.

Afterwards, when the show is over for the morning and everybody heads outside for the food trailers parked out front and to let children play with ponies and calves, Shiwoo follows Tōji to the car park, where Sukuna is waiting with his silver medal around his neck and a lopsided smile.

Shiwoo, of course, is thinking about the first time he saw the two boys, huddled against an SUV with their hands down each other’s pants. In the bright light of midday, the car park isn’t nearly as erotically charged.

“Don’t make that face,” Sukuna tells Tōji, laughing. “Still made five hundred bucks.”

Shiwoo doesn’t know what face Tōji is making, since it’s buried in the crook of Sukuna’s neck already, but he can make an educated guess.

“Sweet ride,” Shiwoo says and means it, though still puzzled by the fact that the boy is into barrel racing at all. Sukuna tips his hat, his other hand busy scratching the back of Tōji’s neck.

“Come,” Sukuna tilts his head in the vague direction of the parked cars. “I got some beers in the trunk.”

Sukuna’s car, as it turns out, is a breathtaking 1977 Pontiac Firebird, blood red and shiny as if it came out of the factory that very morning.

“Nice,” Shiwoo whistles, running the tips of his fingers over the hood, before he retrieves a cigarette from his pack and puts it to his mouth. “Where d’ya get this baby?”

Sukuna smiles proudly. “Junkyard. Put it together myself.”

Shiwoo nods his appreciation. “Impressive.”

Tōji, uninterested in car talk, pops the trunk open and grabs the cooler inside. He hands a beer to Shiwoo and one to Sukuna but, to Shiwoo’s surprise, he grabs himself a Coca-Cola bottle.

“Ya don’t drink before sunset?” Shiwoo taunts.

“I don’t drink at all,” Tōji states.

Shiwoo hums, murmuring, “You wouldn’t last a day in the police force,” more to himself than to the boys.

Sukuna perks up, the rim of his bottle hovering close to his mouth. “You a cop?”

There’s a sudden shift in the air, and Shiwoo catches Tōji tensing up, despite his attempt to hide it. They probably have weed in the car.

Shiwoo takes a drag from his smoke and shrugs. “Yeah. Detective actually.”

Tōji’s eyes dart to Sukuna for a brief, hilarious moment.

He enjoys the boys’ distress for only a second longer, before he clarifies, “Murder detective. And I’m on vacation.”

Sukuna is still silent, studying him as he takes a sip and swallows, the movement of his Adam’s apple slow and tantalizing. Sukuna isn’t pretty, but Tōji was right: Shiwoo likes him.

“So… just to be clear,” Tōji starts and doesn’t finish, but Shiwoo understands what he’s getting at anyway.

“‘M just a civilian.”

He doesn’t add that, if anything, he could be the one getting in trouble for… whatever this is. He still has no idea how old they are, and it should probably trigger some alarms in his head that he’s not that worried about it.

He should ask the question out loud, he thinks. Make sure they’re all on the same page about what is going on, and where they’re headed. The way Shiwoo sees it, they’re headed towards a motel room’s stained bed sheets and thin walls.

May as well ask it now, while things are still awkward.

“You guys… are legal, right?”

The two of them both regard him like he’s grown a second head. Then they both, in perfect sync, burst out laughing. Tōji bends in half holding his belly, his hat falling off his head and drifting to the ground. Whoever came up with the saying better safe than sorry clearly never met someone with a laughter as vicious as Tōji Zen’in’s.

“You’d’ve let a minor go down on ya?”

The question is dirty, crass and uncomfortable, but Tōji makes it sound somehow seductive, his snickering smothered into a cat-like grin, his eyes half-lidded and his scar truly appetizing.

“Ya looked old enough,” Shiwoo justifies himself. “Just wanted ta make sure.”

Sukuna casually steps closer to Shiwoo, one hand in his pocket and the other around his beer bottle, condensation dripping between his fingers.

“They don’t let minors ride bulls at this rodeo,” Tōji explains, even though he doesn’t elaborate on how old they actually are.

It’s Sukuna who comes to his rescue and puts his mind completely at ease. “I’m twenty-four. He’s twenty-two.”

Shiwoo nods slowly, his cigarette now burnt down to the filter so he drops it into the gravel and stumps it out. “Wasn’t that hard, now, was it?”

He’s startled by a hand at his lower back, not having noticed Sukuna move, but he manages not to flinch.

“Let’s go somewhere, mh?”

For a brief, delirious moment Shiwoo wonders if this is how he dies. Getting kidnapped and tortured to death by two wild kids. Being sacrificed to some weird cult that has taken root in his hometown during his decade long absence. In a car crash, because Sukuna drove under the influence.

Shiwoo has a pretty strong survival instinct, which ranges from having to make himself smile at powerful people to burying himself in paperwork to avoid getting called in on a shootout.

Something about this place, though, the inescapable wilderness of the boys raised under the biggest sky in the whole world and the melancholic tug of half-forgotten memories of a reckless youth lived in the dark – it makes him willing to gamble.

***

Sukuna sits comfortably in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, the inky blackness of his outfit one with the tattoo crawling over his neck and the sleek leather seats. He rolls out of the car park, zig-zagging between pick-up trucks and station wagons with ease, and onto the dusty asphalt road. On their way back to town, they pass several billboards advertising the rodeo or reminding them that they will go to hell unless they call this number and donate to this church right now . Shiwoo rides shotgun, the window rolled down to let the smoke out, hair tousled by the whipping wind and eyes darting from the road to the rearview mirror to catch glimpses of Tōji, splayed out on the back seat and sipping at his coke bottle. His shirt is partly lifted, the exposed skin paler than his tanned arms and cheeks. Scar tissue marks a spot near his belly button in a jagged line that continues beyond sight, under his shirt. His hand leisurely rubs circles around his navel.

He knows he’s being watched, knows both Shiwoo and Sukuna are affected by the sight of him.

“Gon’ make me crash the car, Tōji.”

The way Tōji’s name slips out of Sukuna’s mouth is honeyed and soft, dripping with fondness and familiarity. Tōji’s grin is coy as he twists on himself, laying flat on his back, legs raised against the door, the movement making his shirt bunch up even more around his chest. His hat slides down to cover half of his face.

Shiwoo is not a quiet man, but he has no frame of reference for how to play his cards here. He’s at a loss – for words, for coherent thoughts, for what to do. He grinds his teeth around the filter of his cigarette and acts more nonchalant than he feels. Pretends the better view of the scar on Tōji’s abdomen doesn’t make him want to peel off his clothes one piece at a time, search his body for more, run his fingers over raised skin and meet keloids with his lips.

“How’d you get that?” He asks, determined not to humiliate himself in front of two kids.

Tōji doesn’t have to ask what he’s referring to: his scar is now completely exposed, starting from his hip bone and curling around his lower ribs like a centipede. He absentmindedly brushes his fingers over it.

“Bull stepped on me,” he says casually. He tongues at the scar on his mouth and Shiwoo wonders again if a bull gave him that one, too.

“Scared the shit outta me,” Sukuna adds quietly. Shiwoo turns to him. “Lucky motherfucker. Shoulda died.”

Tōji snickers behind them and lifts himself in a sitting position, apparently done attempting to cause a car crash. He leans forward in the space between the front seats, resting one elbow on each. His hair looks softer than the previous day, cleaner, even though it’s flat on his scalp after wearing his hat all morning.

With a jerk of his chin towards Shiwoo, he asks, “Can I bum one?”

Shiwoo stretches his arm out the window to flick off the butt of his cigarette, then reaches into his pocket to get two more out. He offers one to Sukuna, but he refuses, so Shiwoo just sticks it into his mouth. He lights his own first, but when he turns to do the same for Tōji, the boy just grabs his chin, quick and fluid, pressing Shiwoo’s jaw between his fingers firmly but without hurting, and closes his lips around his stick. He leans closer, touching the tip of his unlit cigarette to Shiwoo’s burning one, and inhales. It happens too fast for Shiwoo to do anything about it, and the next second Tōji straightens up, locking eyes with him as he lets smoke out of his smirk-split mouth in a dense cloud.

Sukuna has a white-knuckled grip on the wheel by now, and he hits the gas to get wherever it is they’re going faster.

The engine roars and Sukuna takes a turn a little too fast, the car feeling every bump in the cobbled road Sukuna steers it into. A wooden sign hangs above an open gate that reads RYŌMEN RANCH in bold white letters.

Shiwoo spots a large two-story house, unusual for a ranch, with off white walls and a dark sloping roof surrounded by tall pine trees. Sukuna drives past the house’s front yard and deeper into the property. Shiwoo immediately recognizes the angular silhouette of a gambrel roofed barn and, beyond it, a large, empty, fenced grass field.

Sukuna circles the barn and eases the car to a stop, killing the engine with a sharp twist of the keys.

“C’mon,” he urges, dropping his hat on the dashboard and climbing out of the car.

He waits for Tōji and Shiwoo to finish smoking, even though he keeps kicking at the ground impatiently. When they’re both done, he leads the way inside.

To Shiwoo’s surprise, the barn is completely empty, despite evidence that it once housed a fairly large number of animals. Bales of hay are lined up against one wall, stacks of straw messily piled on top of each other throughout the barn, crates and barrels used to store fodder lie abandoned by the wall opposite from where the three of them are standing, near the feed and water bunks – empty and buried under layers of grime and dust.

It’s past midday and sunlight streams through the spaces between the timber planks of the walls almost vertically, tinting the space a bright shade of yellow.

“Used ta have sheep,” Sukuna says, a little sadly, noticing Shiwoo’s lingering stare at the empty pens.

“Used to?” Shiwoo questions.

Sukuna shrugs. “What with none left ta handle ‘em.”

He doesn’t explain what he means by that, and Shiwoo doesn’t ask. Tōji, way ahead of them, has wandered off deeper into the barn, climbing the pens’ fence and making himself comfortable on top of a stack of straw, sprawled like a starfish, his head reclined back and eyes on the holes in the ceiling.

Shiwoo feels that urge again, the urge to strip Tōji bare and bend him until he breaks. To see him on his knees once more and, weirdly, he wants to see what Sukuna looks like underneath his carefully crafted sharp and scary exterior. He’s not the type to bark, so maybe he is the type to bite.

Sukuna glances up at him with the same intense curiosity. He takes a careful step forward, breaking the invisible barrier of Shiwoo’s personal space, testing the waters, a glint in his amber eyes.

In a moment of startling clarity, Shiwoo knows what Sukuna’s intentions are, and the simple, almost natural understanding that flows between the two of them is as exhilarating as it is – or should be – concerning.

Shiwoo’s hand cups the side of Sukuna’s neck, easily as breathing. Sukuna fingers the rough fabric of Shiwoo’s shirt around his hip bones, and kisses him.

It’s slow, deliberate. Sukuna’s plump red lips look and feel downright sinful and Shiwoo is too old to let a simple kiss get him so worked up. The boy’s hands travel upwards, pawing at his chest, sliding up towards his neck and pulling him closer; his tongue is scalding hot and his voice cracks deliciously when he lets out a soft moan.

It doesn’t take long at all to get the reaction they were both aiming for. A scoff, short and humorless, catches their ears and they pull away, turning to admire an offended flush creeping up Tōji’s face. Scorn suits him beautifully; he wears it like others wear shiny jewels, disdain worn as accessory.

Sukuna’s smile is cruel as he turns back to Shiwoo, ignoring Tōji completely and assaulting his throat instead. His kisses bruise, hands working to undo the top buttons of Shiwoo’s shirt to nip at his collarbones.

Shiwoo’s arms reach around the boy to feel him up. He delights in Sukuna’s high-pitched whimper as he gets a good handful of his ass. It’s a show for Tōji, but Shiwoo is enjoying every last second of it. Sukuna pushes him backward until Shiwoo’s lower back hits the metal fence of a pen, letting out a self-satisfied sigh when he manages to get Shiwoo’s shirt completely open. There’s hunger in his eyes as he regards Shiwoo like he’s a hunk of meat, licking his lips and all.

Shiwoo chuckles, “Easy, tiger,” but lets Sukuna nose at the hair on his chest, mouth open to drag his lips under his left pec. Shiwoo itches for another smoke. He wishes Sukuna had longer hair so he could tug at it, but he settles for rubbing at the base of his shaved head, eliciting a pleased moan out of him.

He braves a glance at Tōji over Sukuna’s shoulder, drinking in the pitiful picture he makes. He sat up from his earlier sprawl, legs still spread but bouncing steadily. His chest heaves and his eyes are nearly unblinking. Shiwoo begins to feel himself grow hard.

In his defense, Sukuna is still going to town on his tits and grinding against him like a dog, which Shiwoo has absolutely zero complaints about.

He remembers, suddenly and a little begrudgingly, that he told himself he was going to treat Tōji better, if there was going to be a next time.

Sighing, he throws him another glance, even while he keeps petting Sukuna’s head encouragingly. Tōji’s face is a marble statue: he clenches his jaw, eyes dark and half-hidden by strands of black hair, a strange new grimace curling his lips downwards. He looks hurt. Maybe they went too far, too soon. Shiwoo mentally curses himself because, while Sukuna may be a little too young and inexperienced with this kind of dynamic, Shiwoo really ought to know better.

He selectively doesn’t think about what it says about him that the pout on Tōji’s face turns him on.

Pinching Sukuna’s chin between thumb and pointer finger, Shiwoo lifts the boy’s head and forces him to make eye contact.

“Someone’s feeling left out,” he whispers. He indulges in a quick kiss to Sukuna’s inviting, puffy lips, before he forcibly turns the kid’s head towards the other boy.

Immediately, Sukuna’s hold on Shiwoo loosens and he straightens up, humming contemplatively. Tōji stubbornly keeps his eyes on them, his fists clenched tight around straws.

Slowly and nonchalantly, Sukuna pulls away from Shiwoo and starts walking towards Tōji, fluidly climbing the pen’s fence to reach him. Shiwoo follows at a slower pace, but instead of climbing the fence like the boys did, he slides the bolt latch to open the gate and walks in like a civilized person.

In the time it takes him to reach them, Sukuna and Tōji wrestle for a while, with Tōji spitting muttered insults at Sukuna, lashing out at him, and Sukuna grabbing Tōji’s wrists and holding him down, silently taking the verbal assault. When Tōji tires himself out trying, and failing, to overpower Sukuna, Shiwoo approaches them.

He hears Sukuna whisper sweet nothings into Tōji’s ear, even though he doesn’t really catch any of the words, while Tōji’s eyes burn holes through Shiwoo’s skull.

Sukuna, who is laying his entire weight on top of Tōji, manages to placate him, but Shiwoo still leans down and pets Tōji’s hair, knowing it’s better to reassure him now than deal with another tantrum later.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he grins, “we just wanted to rile you up.”

Sukuna parts his lips and begins a slow trail of open-mouthed kisses to the side of Tōji’s throat, one of his hands letting go of Tōji’s wrist to grope at his chest instead.

Shiwoo debates taking a step back and letting them go at it; sit back and enjoy the show. But his dick is hard and straining against the confines of his jeans, and Tōji is still looking up at him with lust dripping from his emerald eyes.

Kicking lightly at Sukuna’s leg, a wordless request to move aside, he takes a step closer. When Sukuna sits up, his thumb rubbing affectionately at the other boy’s scarred cheek, Shiwoo lifts his knee and shoves his foot between Tōji’s legs.

Tōji keens, arching his back off the stack of straw he’s still laying on, bucking his hips against the sole of Shiwoo’s boot. There’s a sudden dark spark in Sukuna’s eyes, as if he just found out something new about the boy he’s been with for who knows how long. Judging by the sheer adoration with which they look at each other and their practiced intimacy, it must be a very long time. Shiwoo’s very presence here is a testament to the trust they have in each other, in the silent but mutual agreement that this is just fun, that all the three of them are going to get out of this is a good time.

As Tōji ruts against Shiwoo’s shoe, Sukuna tries to get his shirt open, but Shiwoo stops him.

“Leave his clothes on,” Shiwoo explains as Sukuna shoots him a questioning, mildly annoyed look. “Take your shirt off.”

Again, Shiwoo catches that devious twinkle in Sukuna’s eyes, but he smirks as he watches the boy obey.

Tōji mumbles a weak protest, wanting to be free of at least his shirt, so Shiwoo leans down to press his lips to the scar on the corner of his mouth, using the foot on Tōji’s crotch as leverage. Tōji cries out under the pressure, his hand shooting up to grab at Shiwoo’s shirt.

“You’re ridin’ tonight,” Shiwoo reminds him softly, even as the boy squirms. “If you win, you’ll get a real good prize.”

Tōji raises his head to meet Shiwoo’s lips, kissing him properly for the first time. He is more aggressive than Sukuna, his lips chapped and dry, but Shiwoo feels heat zip through him anyway. Tōji gasps when he pulls back to breathe, then makes a disappointed sound when Shiwoo retreats from him completely.

“Behave,” he tells him.

Tōji huffs out an exasperated sigh. He mumbles, “Fuck you,” but doesn’t try to grab him again or take off his clothes.

When Shiwoo stands back up, Sukuna is half naked and dragging Tōji’s hand down his pants. They both make an incredible picture, a vision out of Shiwoo’s wettest, dirtiest dreams.

The tattoos on Sukuna’s neck continue down his back and chest, thick black lines outlining his pecs and shoulder blades. The inky bands around his wrists have twins around his biceps, which are crowned by two pitch black orbs.

Shiwoo catches him staring, eyes glassy as Tōji’s hand starts moving, taking his thick red cock out of his pants and stroking him with expert twists of his wrist.

“What?” Shiwoo taunts, hands on his belt, undoing it, eyes on Sukuna’s half-open mouth. “Need something?”

Sukuna doesn’t respond, but he petulantly grabs him by his waist and pulls him close, tugging both his jeans and briefs down his thighs in one violent motion.

Shiwoo hisses, grabbing at Sukuna’s head for purchase and finding none, as the boy spits in his hand and gives him a tight stroke, the same tongue that was in Shiwoo’s mouth minutes ago now circling the dark tip of his cock.

Shiwoo groans as Sukuna swallows him whole in one go. The sound of Tōji’s high-pitched squeal reaches his ears, making him realize he pushed down his foot a little too hard. When he looks down at the boy, though, his cheeks are flushed and his bottom lip is trapped between his teeth.

Tōji snakes his free hand under the hem of Shiwoo’s jeans leg and grabs his boot at the ankle, keeping it in place, the pressure steady as he glides his hips back and forth.

As Sukuna opens up his throat, Shiwoo holds Tōji’s gaze and imagines what it will feel like to split him open on his cock, to feel his walls squeeze him and then soften around him, to watch him come completely undone.

“Fuck–” He digs his fingers into Sukuna’s shoulder, who seems intent on keeping Shiwoo’s thoughts from straying with a light scrape of his teeth along the length of his dick.

He has no time to scold him, because Tōji starts dragging the heel of his boot down to meet his empty thrusts, threatening to throw him off balance. Sukuna lets out a long, low moan and Shiwoo feels control slip through his fingers. He’ll be damned if he’s the one to come first.

Pushing at Sukuna’s forehead, he gets the boy off his cock, even though that’s not much better: he looks up at Shiwoo through half-lidded eyes, mouth hanging open, red lips swollen and glistening with precum and spit. Shiwoo has to squeeze the base of his cock in a death grip to avoid embarrassing himself.

He takes a deep breath, then another, and when he feels his confidence settle back in, he tilts his head towards Tōji. Without a word, Sukuna nods in silent understanding, and leans down next to Tōji, kissing him.

It’s a true love’s kiss shared while passing another man’s cum between their mouths. It’s hot as fuck. Shiwoo is so close.

Sukuna’s hand pets at Tōji’s side, down and down, until he reaches the waistband of his jeans, and sinks under it. Shiwoo moves his foot enough to accommodate Sukuna’s hand as it begins to move in a pumping motion inside Tōji’s jeans.

“Ah, yes… yes– Ah!” Tōji’s hips stutter and his back arches off the straw with a drawn out moan. Sukuna strokes him through an orgasm that leaves him panting and shaking. When Sukuna retrieves his hand, it’s slick with Tōji’s come.

He lifts it to Tōji’s lips and whispers, “Open up, baby,” and Tōji does. Shiwoo thinks he sees the crimson flush on his cheeks grow several shades darker at the pet name.

Tōji sucks on Sukuna’s fingers, wiping them clean of his own filth, while Sukuna jerks his hips to fuck into Tōji’s fist.

Shiwoo steps closer, raising a knee to lean on the stack of straw next to Tōji’s head. Tōji glances up at him, but he’s still soft and slow from his orgasm, his gaze dazed as he suckles mindlessly, tongue gliding between Sukuna’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Shiwoo swears, shoving a hand through the boy’s hair to grab him and keep him still, “don’t move.”

Sukuna’s breath catches and so does Shiwoo’s, as they come almost simultaneously, in Tōji’s hand and on his face respectively, the once quiet barn now filled with their panting breaths.

***

In the few days Shiwoo has been back home, the rodeo arena has quickly become his most frequented place. A few people recognize him and throw a polite smile his way, so he does the same, manners drilled into him by his parents that the police academy tragically failed to train out of him.

Sukuna finds him on the stands after wishing Tōji good luck. Shiwoo regrets not doing the same, but he ran a bit late because he needed a long and thorough shower after their little rendez-vous at Sukuna’s barn. He still has no idea why he didn’t take Shiwoo and Tōji to the house instead.

Many things about Sukuna baffle him, but he doesn’t think they will ever get to know each other enough to unravel all of them.

Still; the clowns are still performing and the competition is yet to begin, so they have a little time to waste.

“How come you don’t ride bulls?” Shiwoo asks him. “You look the type.”

Sukuna snorts, dragging bored eyes from one point of the arena to another.

“I don’t have a death wish,” he flashes his teeth in a humorless grin, shaking his head. “Unlike someone, I actually wanna do somethin’ with my life.”

Shiwoo chuckles. “Yeah? You studyin’?”

“Yeah,” Sukuna nods, but doesn’t say what he is studying. Instead, he cocks his head and narrows his eyes at Shiwoo. “Where d’ya live?”

Good sense cautions Shiwoo against telling Sukuna – and, by extension, Tōji – where he lives and works, but there are still six days to go before he is back at his desk and, if he keeps entertaining himself with the two boys, it is bound to come up sooner or later anyway.

Still, he sounds hesitant when he utters, “Seattle.”

Sukuna makes a face Shiwoo isn’t sure how to interpret, but he doesn’t seem to like the answer.

“What?”

“That’s a long way away,” he says, to which Shiwoo simply hums. “Don’t think I’m made for the big city.”

Shiwoo snorts, eyes drifting towards the arena: the music has stopped and the performers are taking their bows; wranglers on horseback and bullfighters enter through the fenced alley as the host makes a brief opening speech to work up the crowd.

“Better than here, anyway,” Shiwoo adds belatedly, a little lost in thought.

Seattle isn’t actually all that, but at least when he’s there he doesn’t have to hide like a closeted teenager. Hell, he even ran into his lieutenant at his favorite gay club. Twice.

And it’s a relief he’s not on harbor patrol duty anymore and doesn’t have to scrub sea salt and the smell of fish off his skin every night when he gets home. Now, the only fish he deals with are the two African butterfly fishes inhabiting the tank in his living room.

The audience cheers as the first bull storms into the arena, which tears Shiwoo away from his straying thoughts.

“You wanna do something with your life?” He tells Sukuna, “You better get out of here. The bigger the city, the bigger the opportunities.”

Sukuna grimaces as the rider falls off his bull a mere second after his entrance, then he glances at Shiwoo.

“Why didn’tcha go to New York, then?”

Shiwoo shudders. “Too big.”

Sukuna laughs.

A few more riders fail to ride their bulls, but the show goes on. Sukuna is a surprisingly good conversationalist: they talk a lot without saying anything really important, commenting on the rider’s performances between a laugh and a snarky remark.

Tōji is the sixth rider to compete and, when it is finally his turn, both Shiwoo and Sukuna fall silent, eyes trained on the bucking chute. His hat is the same black one he has worn every single time Shiwoo has seen him but, when he nods and the gate is opened, Tōji greets the audience with an emerald green shirt and matching designs on a pair of seemingly new – or, at least, less used – black chaps.

The bull is a huge, stout black animal called Bruiser who immediately starts bucking and spinning in a circle. The bullfighters move out of the way as Bruiser rears and starts moving forward. The bull’s head swerves to the left and Tōji’s hips veer to the right, gyrating his free arm in the air to keep balance. Five seconds have passed and Tōji is still on the bull, feet kicking to spur the animal into an even wilder spin. Bruiser gets close to the fence and Shiwoo instinctively jerks back with his arms in front of him, hands clenched as if he could fistfight a two thousand pound beast. Eight seconds.

The buzzer announces Tōji’s triumph, another spectacular ride, and Sukuna jumps to his feet with a howl.

But then… something goes wrong.

Tōji is still on the bull.

He’s close enough to make eye contact. Shiwoo can see, clearly and vividly, the instant Tōji’s smile disappears as he realizes that, while he was freeing his hand from the bull rope, the bull bucked one last time and Tōji’s leg got stuck in the flank rope. The bull kicks his hind legs and charges forward.

The entire audience lets out a collective gasp and watches in horror as Bruiser drags Tōji across the arena by his leg, then recoils to avoid a bullfighter, bucking on instinct and twisting on himself. His right horn grazes Tōji’s head as the boy is kicked towards him. Thankfully, the motion frees Tōji’s foot from the flank rope and he drops to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been abruptly and violently cut.

“Shit…” comes Sukuna’s voice, feeble but loud in the sudden petrified silence of the crowd. His hands have a death grip on the fence, looking like he wants to do something real stupid like climbing it.

“Sukuna,” Shiwoo grabs his arm to hold him back, but he doesn’t budge. Again, he calls, “Sukuna.”

Sukuna glares at him, a fire in his eyes Shiwoo was yet to witness in their short time together, jaw set tight and face red. He jerks his arm free of Shiwoo’s hold.

“What?” He snarls.

Shiwoo’s eyes dart to Tōji’s prone figure surrounded by bullfighters. The wranglers have had to rope the bull to safely take him into the exit chute; freeing the way for the medics, Shiwoo supposes.

Sukuna is nearly shaking with emotion.

A movement catches Shiwoo’s eye and he lets out a relieved sigh.

“Look!” He points to where Tōji is turning his head from right to left, proving he is awake and somewhat vigilant. A moment later, the audience roars, relief washing over the entire arena like a flood.

Sukuna turns in time to see Tōji attempt to sit up, his chest visibly deflating as he, too, lets out a heavy exhale. His hand finds Shiwoo’s forearm, squeezes it and Shiwoo allows it. Shiwoo doesn’t think there’s anything suspicious about hugging him, given the circumstances, so he does. Then he makes the creative decision not to question why he felt the urge to do so in the first place.

He is reminded once again of how young Sukuna is, when he feels him gripping the back of his shirt tightly, as if afraid to let go and look back to Tōji. As if afraid to find him still lying flat on the floor, unmoving.

Shiwoo strokes the back of his shaved head only once, doesn’t know if he can get away with more, before he disentangles himself from Sukuna’s arms.

By now, Tōji is standing and waving a hand to the crowd, but two fighters are holding him up. He winces every time his leg touches the ground.

Sukuna shakes his head, inhaling and exhaling in a slow rhythm to soothe himself, then he stares ahead like a hunter looking through the scope of his rifle.

“Swear ‘m gonna fuckin’ kill ‘im,” Sukuna growls, but Shiwoo can hear all his fondness for the crazy boy he loves anyway. It’s cute.

***

When he went home after the trip to Sukuna’s ranch, Shiwoo had looked up the old gay bar he used to go to as a teen to check whether it was still open. Indeed, it is.

Later that night, when he tells Sukuna and Tōji, “Let me take you somewhere,” he is only mildly surprised Sukuna lets him drive, but when the boy climbs into the backseat and lets Tōji rest his injured leg on his knees, Shiwoo figures it makes sense.

“It ain’t broken,” the medic had reassured Tōji after examining the damage, “but it is sprained, so yer gonna need this for a while,” she added, securing a leg brace around his knee.

Now, still a little dazed from the eventful evening and a little high on painkillers, he slouches against the leather seat and lets Sukuna softly squeeze his ankle, a comforting and endearing gesture Shiwoo glimpses from the rearview mirror.

“Where are we going?” Sukuna asks as the engine roars to life.

Shiwoo sucks on the cigarette in his mouth while keeping both hands on the steering wheel.

Smoke rushes out of him as he replies, “Somewhere better than that shithole y’all call a bar.”

Sukuna doesn’t ask any more questions, but Tōji chuckles quietly.

He stirs when Shiwoo takes the highway, sitting up and peering into the darkness outside the window. It’s nearing midnight, and there’s not a cloud in the starry sky. Tōji makes a wistful sound at the back of his throat, his eyes on that deep blue, then on the road.

“Y’ain’t kidnappin’ us, are ya?”

Shiwoo snorts. “I could have asked the same question this morning.”

“Ya think we’d kidnap ya after tellin’ us yer a cop?” Sukuna deadpans.

Shiwoo lifts an eyebrow. “You’d kidnap me if I wasn’t a cop?”

The boys both laugh and it is eerily reminiscent of the howling of coyotes.

It’s not a long drive to the bar, and when Shiwoo pulls up onto the gravelly path to the parking lot, Sukuna is the first to get out of the car.

On the rooftop of the one-story building is the huge silhouette of a cowboy boot, alight with red neon outlines and, in the middle of it, a bright yellow sign reads ‘ SADDLES & BOOTS ’.

Hanging from the front door is another, smaller sign, wooden and handpainted which reads ‘ Cowboy bar ’. Bass thrums through the cracks in the door like a pounding pulse, alive and electrifying. On the opposite side of the parking lot is a motel with a flickering vacancy sign.

Tōji wobbles towards the entrance of the bar, caught by Sukuna a second before face planting on the front steps. Shiwoo steps beside him to support his other arm.

“‘M fine,” protests Tōji, but Sukuna doesn’t let go. Shiwoo, while not touching him, remains close.

“What’s this place?” Sukuna asks, eyes on the steps and on Tōji’s feet. “Slow down, ya–”

Tōji lets out a triumphant, “Ha!” when he manages to slither out of Sukuna’s hold and reach the door by himself.

Sukuna shakes his head, but Shiwoo can’t hear his low muttering because Tōji swings the door open and the sudden loud music drowns out everything else.

Nostalgia has been clinging to his skin like a thin sheen of sweat ever since he stepped foot into his hometown, wrapped its tricky tendrils around him at the rodeo, and now Shiwoo can feel it tug at his heartstrings with its enchanting song. The bar is exactly the same as when he last was here: bright flashes of white illuminate the mass of swaying bodies on the dance floor one freeze frame at a time, leaving afterimages of pure joy and exhilaration behind his eyelids; on a small stage elevated from the floor, a DJ and the two drag queens flanking her are hyping up the crowd, crimson neon lights bathing them in a seductive haze. Deeper into the club, on the opposite end of the stage, is the actual bar, the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the counter glittering and refracting the myriad of colorful lights on the patrons’ faces. A collection of bull horns is displayed on the wall next to it, and on the other side is an old pool table. Sweat and dirt and the distinctive sugary sweet smell of the smoke machine drench the place; the floor is sticky from spilled liquor under his feet.

When he looks back at Sukuna and Tōji, who are still in the doorway, they look like children.

It sort of breaks the spell for him, to see how out of place these boys look here, and not because they’re proper cowboys. Even in the darkness, Shiwoo can see the same type of crowd of smalltown teenagers in love with their cowboy hats and their Nudie suits imitations, older ranchers and rodeo goers he was familiar with a decade ago. What makes them look alien is their sheer ignorance that a place like this even existed.

Tilting his head towards the bar and hoping they see him in the dark and hear him over the music, he shouts, “Come on!”

Sukuna helps Tōji limp to where Shiwoo is pointing, letting him lead the way to a table that’s neither too close nor too far from the dance floor. The music here is less deafening, but they still have a good enough view of the club. There’s more light here, as well.

“How d’ya know ‘bout this place?” Tōji asks, an amused and, if Shiwoo has learnt to read him, impressed smile tugging at his lips.

Shiwoo makes a vague gesture with his hand and takes a cigarette out of his pack to stick it between his lips.

“Used to come here when I was your age,” he answers, then thinks better of it and shakes his head. “Nah, I was younger. How didn’t y’all know about it?”

Neither of them answer, but their faces look suddenly grim enough to convince Shiwoo not to inquire further, no matter how curious he is.

Thankfully, a waiter stops by their table and breaks the sudden awkward silence that befell them.

“What can I getcha?” The kid says, a pretty looking thing in a plaid shirt and booty shorts.

“Whiskey, straight” Shiwoo says, because he is a creature of habit. “What about you?”

Sukuna and Tōji exchange a quick look, then Sukuna asks for a rum on the rocks and Tōji asks for chocolate ice cream.

The waiter sends Shiwoo a suspicious look, but Shiwoo waves a hand in what he hopes translates to don’t worry, they’re legal . When a stray ray of light hits Tōji’s face, the waiter lights up instantly.

“You’re Tōji Zen’in! Lord!” The kid shows all of his teeth in an adoring grin. “Man, you were ridin’ tonight, right? Wish I coulda been there! How’d it go?”

Sukuna tenses up immediately, clearly uncomfortable with anyone knowing who they are. Contrary to him, Tōji’s expression journeys from curious to surprised to charming in the blink of an eye.

He drags his injured leg from under the table to show the brace and lightly slaps his thigh. “Bull was feisty,” he says, more smug than he has any reason to be, considering. At the waiter’s scared gasp, Tōji reassures, “Don’t worry, I rode the son of a gun!”

Tōji entertains the waiter for a little longer, but Shiwoo tunes it out. He is watching Sukuna, who still looks like a fish out of water, but is beginning to relax in his seat, even though he keeps glancing over his shoulder like he expects to see pitchforks.

Shiwoo slides his shoe across the floor until his ankle touches Sukuna’s. The boy flinches, but relaxes when he realizes it’s just him.

“What are you thinking about?” He mouths more than he speaks, not wanting to broadcast Sukuna’s distress by shouting the question in order to be heard.

Sukuna shakes his head, still firm in his silence, but leans over the table to rest his head on his hand and rubs his foot against Shiwoo’s.

“‘Mkay, got everythin’,” the waiter announces, before turning once more to Shiwoo right as he is about to light his cigarette. “Oh, sorry, sir. No smokin’ in here.”

Shiwoo eyes the smoke machine and fights his urge to roll his eyes, but he takes the cig out of his mouth and puts it back into the box.

Another waiter brings their drinks  and ice cream not long after, and they consume them in jovial company. The liquor helps Sukuna loosen up and the sugar makes Tōji even more restless than he normally is.

“Wanna dance?” He asks Sukuna, who glowers at him.

“Are you fuckin’ stupid?”

Shiwoo snorts into his glass but doesn’t offer his support to either of them.

“C’mon,” Tōji insists, “the leg ain’t broken.”

“It will be if ya go dancin’.”

Tōji huffs, crossing his arms. “The fuck we here for, then?”

Sukuna gives Shiwoo an exasperated look, probably looking for help.

Instead, Shiwoo shrugs and says, “He ain’t wrong.”

As if on cue, the techno beat slowly fades to a slower tempo and the DJ grabs the mic and calls on all lovers to get on the dance floor and hold each other for a while.

Tōji makes doe eyes at Sukuna.

“Hell nah,” Sukuna gruffs, but Shiwoo can see his resolve crumble progressively as Tōji inches closer to him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck with parted lips. “Stop,” he warns Tōji, but it’s weak. He doesn’t even move away.

“Look,” Shiwoo tells him, “nobody here gives a shit who you are. Go dance with your boyfriend before the song ends.”

Shiwoo wonders if he’s getting soft, but then promptly blames it on his melancholy. Regardless, watching Tōji drag Sukuna to his feet and hopping towards the dance floor, and Sukuna – no doubt beet red – following with their hands intertwined, is too sweet a scene not to let a genuine smile curl his lips, private, only for the two boys to see, when they turn back to look at him and smile back.

They’re both awkward as hell, but in a way that can easily be explained away with Tōji’s injury. Sukuna’s embrace is loose at first, still guarded, until Tōji wraps his hands around his neck and tugs him closer. Together, they sway along to the music, pressed chest to chest, closer now that Sukuna lets go of his anxiety. Shiwoo can see the taut line of his shoulders relax, lulled by the warmth of Tōji’s mouth on his neck. His arms snake around Tōji’s waist, fingers sliding under his shirt and pulling him flush against him. Even in the low light, Shiwoo sees the sharp smirk on Tōji’s face.

When they kiss, it’s short and sweet. Sukuna breaks away to glance around them, but nobody is paying them any mind, as everyone else on the dance floor is taken by similar passions. Turning back to Tōji, all hesitation gone entirely, he grabs him again and presses their lips together, taking it slow, opening up to welcome Tōji’s tongue.

All Shiwoo sees is this: hands wandering, bodies crashing against each other like waves, more attuned to each other than to the music, the swirl of tongues as they pull back just long enough to draw a breath.

Their bodies still make up a single formless shape when the music stops almost abruptly. The DJ announces she’s had enough of boring ballads and switches tracks to a much more energetic EDM playlist.

Shiwoo doesn’t know what prompts it, but he finds himself leaving a fifty dollar bill on the table and standing up to join the boys on the dance floor. He catches them by surprise, sneaking up behind Tōji, hands around his waist, overlapping with Sukuna’s. Tōji only flinches for a second, then leans into the touch as soon as he realizes it’s him.

“Havin’ fun?” Shiwoo asks against Tōji’s neck, his eyes on Sukuna.

Now leaning on both of them, Tōji lifts his arms and hops to the beat, grinding his hips against Sukuna, then Shiwoo.

Thief that Shiwoo is, he wastes no time accommodating the movement. With greedy hands he gropes Tōji’s sides, his chest over his shirt until he feels him sigh in pleasure as he leans back against Shiwoo’s chest.

Not wanting Sukuna to feel left out, he reaches out a hand and cups his neck, thumb rubbing over his cheek once, twice, before pulling his face towards Tōji’s bare throat.

Shiwoo caresses the back of Sukuna’s head as the boy’s kisses bruise Tōji’s collarbones, feeling the vibration of Tōji’s moan through his rib cage.

None of them are following – or even hearing – the music anymore, but they let the pounding bass set the pace. Shiwoo and Sukuna kiss over Tōji’s shoulder, hearing him whine in a way that is nothing like his jealous tantrum back at the barn. Shiwoo can hardly believe it was only that morning.

As fun as it is, though, after a while the club becomes stuffy, too many people pushing and pulling them in every direction, lost in the music and their own makeout sessions, and after one elbow in his back too many, Shiwoo decides he’s had enough. He’s too old for this.

“Let’s get outta here,” he shouts to the boys, who are currently humping each other obscenely for two people who were too shy to even hold hands when they first walked in.

***

They head back outside and Shiwoo basks in the cold air of the night for all of two seconds, before Tōji’s arms are around him, his body pressed against Shiwoo’s back and emanating enough heat to power the whole club.

“Where to now, detective?” Tōji drawls. He’s already steadier on his legs, probably more high on adrenaline than drugs. Shiwoo can feel his erection poke him from behind.

Sukuna is also hard, and agitated too. Shiwoo knows, even if he were to maroon them here, they would fuck like animals around the back before they got mad at Shiwoo for leaving.

Shiwoo can do better than that.

He jerks his chin in the direction of the motel. “Now I’m renting a room and I’m going to fuck you.”

He can’t see Tōji’s face, but he hears him snickering as he tucks his head between Shiwoo’s shoulder blades.

The clerk at the reception desk barely looks up from his computer, not batting an eye at the company Shiwoo brings with him. Shiwoo reckons he probably sees weirder things than three men all worked up and clearly about to explore all of each other’s crevices.

The room is nice: plain beige walls and brown carpeted floor with square patterns; two bedside lamps giving off a subdued yellow light, a clean king bed with a deep burgundy cover and a matching velvet armchair set up against the wall near the window.

Shiwoo takes a seat on the armchair and tugs the buttons of his shirt open. Tōji, sitting on the edge of the bed, watches him hungrily, eyes darting between him and Sukuna, waiting.

Shiwoo ponders whether it is worth it to rile Tōji up again like they did that morning, but then he remembers the promise he made to Tōji.

“You won, didn’t you?” He asks slowly, leaning back into his seat. The glint in Tōji’s eyes is enough to make Shiwoo’s cock twitch with interest. “You even got hurt,” he coos, right as Sukuna steps closer to Tōji and threads his fingers through Tōji’s hair. Shiwoo glances up at him. “Don’t you think he earned his prize?”

Sukuna sits behind Tōji on the bed, legs bracketing the other boy as he keeps him from sliding on the floor with the firm hold of his hands.

“Mmmh,” he hums, resting his head on Tōji’s shoulder. His fingers work to slowly undo Tōji’s shirt and Shiwoo can see the steady rise and fall of Tōji’s chest, excitement barely contained as if out of fear of ruining this for himself. Sukuna’s voice is low when he says, “I guess so,” and yanks the sleeves of Tōji’s shirt off his arms.

Tōji lets out a surprised yelp and Shiwoo palms himself over his jeans at the display, seeing how Sukuna scoots back and drags Tōji further up the bed to tug the button of his pants open.

Shiwoo wanted to enjoy the spectacle a little more, let Tōji simmer in the heat of foreplay longer but, admittedly, Shiwoo is a less patient man than others give him credit for.

He rises from the armchair and steps between Tōji’s legs, one knee pushed right against his crotch on the mattress. Tōji sighs, but Shiwoo ignores him. He pulls on the velcro straps on the brace until it comes off, dropped carelessly to the floor. Tōji winces and Shiwoo studies his face for evidence that he’s in pain, but he seems more eager to get his pants off.

Sukuna helps him lift his hips and Shiwoo drags them down his legs, one at a time, until all that’s left on him are a pair of black boxer briefs.

Tōji’s body is a canvas pierced through and burned and slashed open like one of Fontana’s spatial concepts, and Shiwoo is dying to know the story behind every scar.

“Lie down,” he urges, “both of you.”

The getting out of clothes is a messy, rushed affair, but Shiwoo and Sukuna exchange a look and, without needing to be told, Sukuna lifts Tōji’s head in his lap.

That close to his bare crotch, Tōji purrs and nuzzles happily into the hinge of Sukuna’s thigh, shameless as he mouths at the coarse hair around the base of his cock, already an angry red and curved upwards.

Shiwoo hooks his fingers into the waistband of Tōji’s briefs and takes them off. Now Tōji is laid completely bare for Shiwoo’s eyes to feast upon. And feast he does.

He is bigger than Shiwoo expected, dark and uncut. His torso and legs are a paler shade compared to the skin of his arms and face, but he is gradually turning redder in all the places that matter. When Shiwoo runs his hands over his thighs, he is softer than he ought to be. Warm, pliant flesh giving under the pressure of Shiwoo’s fingers. He runs his knuckles all over the big scar on his abdomen, the one he saw in the car.

“So this was from a bull,” he murmurs, just loud enough to catch Tōji’s attention. 

“Mhm-hm,” Tōji plays along, lazily stroking Sukuna’s cock, teasingly slow. “Name of Trigger.”

Shiwoo traces the line of another scar on his side, closer to his chest. “What about this one?”

“Oh, that was Cool Whip,” Tōji smiles, then points to another scar near his clavicle. “This, too. Real hooker, that one.”

Sukuna’s dig of, “Just like you,” is strained and immediately paid back with a tight squeeze of Tōji’s hand. And he liked it, too, if his grin is any indication.

The longer Shiwoo stares at the ugly centipede on Tōji’s abdomen, the stronger his urge to drag his mouth over it gets, until he decides not to ignore it anymore. He trails his lips over it, laving at the raised skin until he reaches Tōji’s chest, swirling his tongue around the dark bud of his nipple.

Tōji bucks like one of his bulls, as if Shiwoo touched an exposed nerve. His hips rut against Shiwoo’s and they both groan at the sensation. Shiwoo feels hot all over, in his belly, in his head, on the tips of his fingers, in his mouth.

He kisses Tōji and grinds down against him, the slide eased by their sweat-slick skin. The smell of it blends with the heavy scent of manure that clings permanently to Tōji’s skin, a cocktail that is both salty and sweet when Shiwoo breaks the kiss and laps at Tōji’s throat.

After a while of just this, he feels a hand tug at his hair. When he lifts his head, he sees Sukuna looking between him and Tōji with eyes dripping with desire.

Shiwoo doesn’t even let him speak, just follows where his hand leads, directly to his mouth.

These boys love to kiss, and Shiwoo is being such a gentleman right now.

He’s almost sitting on Tōji’s face, one hand in the boy’s hair and the other around Sukuna’s neck.

Tōji gets the memo and opens his mouth. He’s intoxicatingly hot inside, lips wrapping around Shiwoo and pulling him deeper.

Shiwoo moans in Sukuna’s mouth, tightening the hold on Tōji’s hair.

“Ah,” Shiwoo breathes, chest heaving as he looks down. Tōji is beautiful with his mouth full and tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “Do him, too.”

Shiwoo pulls out as Tōji twists onto his front, palming at the taut muscle of Sukuna’s thighs. He lets a thick line of spit and precum drip from his mouth to Sukuna’s cock, kneading into the hinges of his crotch as he takes him slowly, suckling at the tip for exasperatingly long seconds before he swallows him whole.

“ Fuuuuck …” Sukuna’s reaction is a full body shudder. His fingers dig into the meat of Shiwoo’s shoulder, mouth hanging open as if he, too, wants something in it.

Before he overthinks it, Shiwoo shoves two fingers past the rim of his lips, tilting Sukuna’s head back with the motion, watching his face morph from shock to surrender in the blink of an eye, letting Shiwoo finger his mouth to his heart’s content. He’s just as hot as Tōji, licks of flame against Shiwoo’s digits, and doesn’t protest when Shiwoo pushes them deeper in, far enough to have him choke. Shiwoo’s dick throbs.

He stares at Sukuna carefully, as Tōji sucks him off, wanting to catch the moment he’s close to coming. His face twists, jaw slack enough that Shiwoo could stick his cock in him without resistance, a pretty red flush creeping down his neck and chest. There.

Shiwoo pulls at Tōji’s hair, urging him to stop.

“Easy, now,” Shiwoo holds up a hand against Sukuna’s chest when the boy moves to bend forward and chase his release inside Tōji’s mouth. “Don’t want this to be over so soon, do ya?”

Sukuna grunts, a sound low in his throat, but he blinks past the haze of denied bliss and runs his tongue over his wet lips.

Shiwoo leaves the bed to grab the travel sized bottle of lube he got from a vending machine outside the deli he went to grab his mother’s groceries on his way home from Sukuna’s ranch. It wasn’t his classies moment, but then all his mind had been occupied with was Tōji’s pretty whining and Sukuna’s lips around his dick.

When he turns back, Sukuna has laid down next to Tōji, smashing his lips against the other boy’s and touching each other any way they can.

The mattress dips under his weight once more, as he knees between Tōji’s spread legs, gently nudging him to lift his injured one so it’s mostly out of the way. As Tōji obliges, Shiwoo can’t help but notice a thin line of faded scar tissue on the back of his thigh, with smaller keloids all over it. He runs his thumb over each one, kissing at the inner side of Tōji’s bad knee as he opens up the lube bottle.

“Another bull?” He asks, already knowing those scars must be from falling badly on his ass.

Tōji answers, “Percolator.”

Shiwoo’s eyebrows raise on their own. Tōji’s face looks like that of a mischievous child on April Fool’s, so he turns to Sukuna.

“Really?”

Sukuna snorts, “Really.”

Laughter sneaks up on him, tumbling out from between his teeth and half-parted lips. He shakes his head, muttering the bull’s name under his breath in disbelief. Percolator . Why the hell not.

He squeezes a dollop of lube into his hand and, as he warms it with his fingers, he runs his other hand on the expanse of Tōji’s front, stroking his side in what he hopes comes across as soothing.

“Okay?” He asks, just to make sure.

Tōji smiles and uses his good leg as leverage to slide further down until his ass is flush against Shiwoo’s legs.

“Please,” he begs deviously, nothing submissive about it. His eyes are dark and the scar on his mouth makes his smile look mean and dangerous, even when he’s like this, belly open and vulnerable, all of his most tender parts offered up to Shiwoo.

Shiwoo takes the offering, fingering him open, rubbing against the melting heat of his walls, soft and getting softer. He tugs at his cock with his other hand, quickly darting his eyes to Sukuna to make sure he’s watching. Sukuna has an arm behind Tōji’s head to support it, and Tōji buried in the crook of his neck, whining and moaning loudly in his ear, but his eyes are locked in on the rhythmic movement of Shiwoo’s hand, the slow in and out, on the way Tōji’s taint bulges when Shiwoo curls his fingers.

Tōji squirms, arching his back off the bed, clinging to Sukuna’s neck like a lifeline.

It drives Shiwoo crazy how damn beautiful he is, how hot he feels around his fingers, how sugary-sweet his moans sound to Shiwoo’s ears. His skin is sticky as sap, messy with Shiwoo’s spit, lube, and his own precum weeping from the tip of his cock, pooling into his belly button. Shiwoo runs his tongue right below it, tasting a bit of it on his tongue, before taking Tōji into his mouth.

Tōji shouts , a cry ripped from his throat almost forcefully. He clamps down around Shiwoo’s fingers and spills down Shiwoo’s throat almost immediately; Shiwoo doesn’t budge, hugging Tōji’s bad leg to steady him as he keeps fucking his fingers into him, dragging his orgasm until Tōji is shaking in his arms.

Pulling away, Shiwoo sits up and doesn’t hesitate a moment before he climbs on top of Sukuna and pries his mouth open, spitting remnants of Tōji’s cum directly on Sukuna’s eager tongue.

“Swallow,” he tells him, and the boy doesn’t need to be told twice. As a reward, Shiwoo kisses him briefly, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth.

Sukuna glances at the still trembling form of Tōji beside him. He pulls him closer and Shiwoo drops his weight on one elbow beside Sukuna’s head, his other hand carding through Tōji’s hair.

“You’re so good, baby,” Sukuna whispers against Tōji’s forehead. “But you know this ain’t over, yeah?”

His voice is suddenly huskier, darker, his eyes two narrow slits burning with want. He’s still rock hard and Shiwoo can feel him against his hip.

Tōji smirks, recovered from his climax, even though his eyes are still distant.

“Fuck yeah,” he rasps. “I remember someone sayin’ he was gonna fuck me.”

***

Shiwoo leans his back against the headboard as Sukuna maneuvers Tōji onto his front. Tōji crawls into Shiwoo’s lap, happily letting Sukuna take the lead after the latter boy mumbled a petty “Me first,” and slipped from underneath Shiwoo.

“Can I blow ya?” Tōji asks, sounding entirely too sweet for someone who’s dying to be stuffed with cock in both holes.

Shiwoo pets his hair and watches Sukuna slick his cock with the cheap lube and line himself up against Tōji’s rim.

Tōji’s breath stutters as the tip catches, and then it’s an agonizingly slow first slide that has Tōji tense up despite how loose Shiwoo worked him. The kid fists the sheets, groaning at the stretch.

“Ah, fuck… Baby,” moans Sukuna, grabbing Tōji’s waist with both hands. “You feel amazing.”

Tōji’s ass is a masterpiece for Shiwoo to marvel at. Two perfect globes of plump flesh, skin rippling from the force of Sukuna’s thrusts, pumping in and out of him with a wet squelch.

Tōji’s moans are music to Shiwoo’s ears, and when he starts mouthing at Shiwoo’s lower belly, desperate to be filled up, Shiwoo tips his head back and feeds him his cock.

“Mind your teeth,” he teases, dragging his thumb across his gums, opening up his mouth even more.

The sounds Tōji makes are lewd and shameless, spit dribbles out of his mouth and makes a mess of Shiwoo’s nether regions. He hums happily when Shiwoo grabs his head with both hands and begins thrusting into his mouth. It feels so fucking good. His mouth is warm and welcoming and his throat is just the right amount of tight, constricting against the pressure of Shiwoo’s dick pushing deeper.

“Haa,” Shiwoo lets out a long exhale, grinding his hips. He pushes Tōji’s fringe back, away from his forehead. “Enjoying your prize?”

A suffocated whimper is all the response Shiwoo gets.

Sukuna bends over Tōji and licks a stripe up his neck, one hand grabbing Tōji’s on top of Shiwoo’s thigh and linking their fingers. “Look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he pants into Tōji’s ear, earning himself a low, long whine as he slows down his pace.

Shiwoo rubs the back of Sukuna’s shaved head and says to Tōji, “Feels good, yeah? Gonna feel even better.”

Tōji pulls back and gasps for air, coughing and managing to scowl at both of them, though the effect can’t possibly be as serious as he’d hoped, what with his puffy red lips, snotty nose and waterlogged eyes.

“Stop askin’ questions while I’ve got my mouth full,” he croaks, sounding sore and fucked out.

Sukuna laughs, pressing his forehead to the side of Tōji’s face.

He laves at Tōji’s face, tender, as if he’s not licking another man’s cum off his boyfriend cheek, until Tōji turns his head and meets him halfway, sharing the taste of Shiwoo as they make out right in front of him.

Sukuna’s climax is quiet but shakes his whole frame, hands gripping Tōji’s waist hard enough to bruise. Tōji whines, the angle at which he’s bent making him feel every inch of Sukuna inside him, and if Shiwoo were to judge by the way his breath hitches and muscles twitch, he came, too.

They’re both absolutely gorgeous and Shiwoo wishes he could tell them. He wishes he could take pictures, store them in the drawer of his bedroom’s nightstand back in Seattle, to look at and jerk off to on a lazy, lonely night.

But he hasn’t come yet, and he’s not going to last very long at this point; his cock is leaking, veins pulsing, desperate for release.

Sukuna is the first of the boys to recover. He pulls out slowly and Tōji winces, sensitive as he is, having come twice already.

“Don’t worry,” Sukuna says, and for a moment Shiwoo thinks he’s talking to Tōji. “He can take more.”

With that, he lifts Tōji up bodily, pulling him against his chest and Shiwoo wonders if he knows how they look. Deep red lines decorate Tōji’s torso, the imprints of the folds in the bedsheets, his hair sticks to his face with sweat and spit, snot dries up on his cheek as his chest rises and falls with stuttered breaths. Sukuna holds him with a hand around his throat and another around his middle, presenting Shiwoo with the most precious thing he owns.

Shiwoo wonders if they’re aware of the erotic picture they make. They’re more than sexy young men. They look like something forbidden.

When Sukuna manhandles Tōji to sit in Shiwoo’s lap, Shiwoo distantly remembers about Tōji’s injury.

“Wait, his leg–”

Two hands grab his shoulders, forcing him to stay put. Surprisingly, they’re Tōji’s.

With an impossibly smug grin back on his face, he says, “I ride bulls. I think I can ride you.”

Shiwoo’s breath is punched out of his lungs as Tōji takes his cock in hand and sinks down on it, an easy, wet slide.

Shiwoo’s hands shoot up to grab Tōji’s thighs, his head tipped back as he bites back a string of curses that wouldn’t even begin to express how turned on he is. His hands travel behind Tōji, grabbing two good handfuls of his ass.

Tōji’s hole swallows him and clenches around him at every drag of his hips. The heat is all-encompassing, threatening to make him lose his mind. It also makes him realize, way too late, that he completely forgot about condoms. Oh, well.

He closes his hands around the thin silhouette of Tōji’s waist to ease the roll of his hips, then watches Sukuna’s hands fondle his chest, pinching his hard, dark nipples until Tōji squeals and his dick twitches.

Shiwoo wraps a hand around Tōji’s cock, squeezing tightly at the base. “Nuh-uh,” he scolds, with a cruel flick of his fingers to his balls. Tōji jolts with a scream, his back arched at the perfect angle for Shiwoo to thrust up into him. “Wait for us.”

Sukuna’s eyes dart from Tōji to Shiwoo, a beautiful shade of doubt and a new wave of arousal coloring his cheeks. Shiwoo nods, pulling Tōji to him with a hand behind his neck.

Tōji rests his entire weight on him, evidently more tired than he wants to let on. Shiwoo pets his hair with one hand, and with the other he strokes his side, his back, down until he grabs one cheek and spreads his ass.

“Be very good now,” he tells Tōji, even while staring directly at Sukuna. “Be good and relax.”

Sukuna strokes himself to full hardness again, licking his lips as he moves his eyes from Shiwoo to the twitching rim of Tōji’s hole, already full and about to be fuller.

Tōji lifts his head, confused, and only gets a weak, “What–” out of his mouth before Sukuna’s cock prods at his entrance. Tōji’s eyes widen as his boyfriend bullies his way inside and the tip catches, the pressure making Shiwoo’s head spin.

The sound Tōji makes is more animal than man, his mouth left hanging open even after his voice has cracked and he has gone completely silent. His breath is hot in the crook of Shiwoo’s neck, coming in short, pained gasps.

“Holy– Fuck, you’re doing good, Tōji,” Shiwoo reassures him, stroking his hair and back, even though all he wants is to make Tōji scream like that again. “Doin’ real good.”

Sukuna slides deeper, grunting from above, his forehead on Tōji’s shoulder. They’re all trembling in each other’s arms, and Shiwoo can feel Tōji’s cum drip and pool on his belly as the dicks inside him rub incessantly against his sweet spot.

Sukuna was right, Tōji can take so much more than Shiwoo thought. After the first full glide, Sukuna snaps his hips, coaxing a moan out of both Tōji and Shiwoo.

His cock grinds against Shiwoo’s as he fucks Tōji in earnest at a frenzied pace because none of them are going to hold on much longer.

Then Tōji starts sobbing. He squirms and flaps his hands as much as the position allows, as if he wants to get out from between them but doesn’t have the words for it.

For a moment, Shiwoo fears they really did go too far. He instantly grabs Sukuna’s forearm in a firm hold.

He’s saying, “Wait, stop, stop–” but Tōji shakes his head.

He finally frees his hand from the tangled mass of their bodies and begins haphazardly massaging his thigh.

Clarity hits Shiwoo like a bullet, the trained police officer in him taking the wheel as he commands Sukuna to get off from Tōji.

To Sukuna’s protests, Shiwoo barks back, “His fuckin’ leg hurts, dumbass.”

Sukuna’s face twists in an angry grimace at the insult, but he pulls out with a groan anyway. It’s difficult to interpret the sigh Tōji lets out, as he collapses on top of Shiwoo, and Shiwoo hopes he’s not in too much pain.

Because the truth is that this isn’t a show stopper for him. He grieves the loss of Tōji’s warmth, the softness of his walls molding around his cock, and wants back in.

“Lay down,” he tells Sukuna, gesturing to the space beside him. Sukuna is hesitant to obey him, this time, stung by Shiwoo’s tone. Eventually, though, he caves.

His arm brushes against Shiwoo as he plops down on his back. His annoyance at Shiwoo is overshadowed by his concern for Tōji. He lays a hand on Tōji’s shoulder, even though Tōji is turned away from him, and strokes it gently.

Shiwoo rubs circles on Tōji’s hip bone with his thumb, and it feels intimate to the point of wrongness. Tōji catches his breath, blindly putting pressure on random points on his thigh, anywhere he can reach without moving.

“You wanna stop?” Shiwoo asks, as he regrettably has to.

Tōji lifts his head to face him, the feline look of a predator back in his eyes, despite having behaved like a tamed kitten for most of the night. “Fuck no .”

***

Shiwoo has to wonder why he didn’t think of having the boys like this, Tōji sitting on Sukuna’s cock and both of them facing him, from the beginning.

Tōji’s eyes are rolled back in ecstasy as Sukuna embraces him from behind and bucks his hips, cum dripping out of Tōji’s hole each time Sukuna’s cock slides down.

“Ya fixin’ ta just watch?” Sukuna taunts him, which Shiwoo takes with class, as payback for calling him a dumbass.

They shoved a pillow under Tōji’s bad leg, and with it raised the view is absolutely pornographic. Shiwoo doesn’t think he can be blamed for taking his time to appreciate it.

The meat of Tōji’s thighs gives deliciously as Shiwoo raises his other leg, spreading them farther apart. Tōji braces for the stretch, but Shiwoo enters him easily with how loose he is.

Tōji’s hole still clenches greedily, insatiable. Tōji leans back fully on Sukuna with a whimper, echoed by Sukuna’s own moan.

This is how he should have had them from the start. Ever since he first saw them in the car park behind the rodeo arena. He hopes tonight isn’t the last; he still has five days.

Shiwoo and Sukuna alternate thrusting into Tōji, not giving his prostate a moment’s rest, picking up the pace until all that comes out of Tōji is an uninterrupted high-pitched whine. Cum spurts out of his cock weakly and nearly transparent.

Shiwoo rocks into him mindlessly, melting into the dizzying heat of the two boys beneath him, and still, he wants more.

He leans down, all tongue and teeth, ravaging every inch of Tōji’s exposed skin he can reach, watching red and purple bruises bloom on his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, the proud line of his jaw. He catches Tōji’s mouth with his own, then, savoring every little muffled sound Tōji makes on the tip of his tongue, pounding harder, deeper, his movements fast and sharp as bliss coils in his belly, very close to spilling over.

He feels Sukuna’s eyes on him, and he’s not as needy as Tōji, so he won’t say it, but he wants his fill, too. Shiwoo can tell by the look on his face, twisted in both pleasure and exhaustion, pupils blown and mouth open, panting for air and something else, too. His skin is now the same color as his short hair, flushed pink both edgy and pretty. Shiwoo kisses him, too.

Sukuna hums  contentedly, wrapping one arm around Shiwoo’s neck, the other one still holding Tōji tightly against his chest.

Eventually, that’s what does it. The closeness, the scorching heat of Sukuna’s mouth and the feeling of Tōji’s plump body squirming under him as another orgasm hits him.

Shiwoo and Sukuna ride it out, as it doesn’t take Sukuna long to finish, as well, and Shiwoo has a feeling they both would stay just like that, sheathed inside Tōji for a long time, if they could.

But Tōji is truly worn out, limbs limp and lifeless and face slack. His eyes are only half open, and his mind is surely elsewhere.

Shiwoo pulls out first, hissing at the sudden loss of warmth. He helps Sukuna lift Tōji’s waist and lay him down beside him, between them.

If Shiwoo stayed like this for a minute longer, he would surely fall asleep. He will allow himself to rest later, but as the aftershocks of his climax begin to fade, his main vice calls to him.

Slowly, he rises from the bed, stretching his arms and back. He walks to the pile of his clothes on the ground and searches his pockets for his cigarette box and lighter. As he lights up, he watches Sukuna wrap his arms and leg around Tōji, pressing his lips to his nose, cheeks, mouth, forehead. He talks in a low, calming voice, hands stroking Tōji’s back.

As he passes by the bed to reach the small bathroom, Shiwoo catches some of what he says, and smiles.

“How’s the leg? ‘S it okay?” Tōji’s response is a vague hum only Sukuna could interpret, and Shiwoo doesn’t even try. “Ya did good, ya know that?” Then, quieter, “You’re beautiful.”

Shiwoo swings the bathroom door open and scavenges the cabinet near the sink for a washcloth. He considers a shower: he hates going to bed filthy, but he hates going clean to a filthy bed even more. 

He fetches three small towels and fills up the sink, dropping them inside. He squirts hand soap in it, for good measure, rubbing it on the towels while he holds his smoke between his lips, then drains the water and wrings out the towels. The soft sound of laughter reaches him through the open door, and more muffled talk. Two voices now, which means Tōji must be back on planet Earth.

He gives himself a good scrub, wiping most of the sweat, spit and cum from his body.

He returns to the bed with the other two towels and wordlessly hands one to Sukuna. Pulling the bed cover on top of the dirty sheets as best he can, he climbs back into bed. He takes a long drag, smoke drifting from his lips and lingering in the heavy, hot air around them.

He gently rubs the wet towel on Tōji’s face first and works his way down his body, mindful of where he’s sensitive, and where he hurts. Sukuna is less careful with himself, his towel already on the floor by the time Shiwoo is done with Tōji.

“You okay?” Shiwoo checks in with both of them, though mostly with Sukuna, since he’s almost sure Tōji is asleep.

Sukuna nods and hugs Tōji closer. His eyes don’t leave Shiwoo’s face, but his expression is unreadable.

Shiwoo rests his back against the headboard, enjoying the taste of nicotine in his mouth, the burn of smoke in his throat.

“What?” He asks Sukuna sleepily.

“Don’t set the bed on fire,” Sukuna gruffs, but it’s softer than he likely intended it to be.

Shiwoo laughs, but agrees to put out the cigarette in the metal ashtray on the nightstand.

He spoons around Tōji, reaching out with his hand to rest on Sukuna’s arm, giving it a soft but firm squeeze.

Sukuna says nothing, but doesn’t move his arm away.

Shiwoo is rapidly drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep, when he hears Tōji’s voice break the silence.

“Ya free tomorrow, detective?”