The bar is dimly lit, thick with the scent of liquor, sweat, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke. It’s the kind of place where bad decisions don’t just happen—they’re expected. The bass from the speakers rattles the cheap glasses lining the shelves, and the tequila you’ve been drinking sits warm in your stomach, making everything feel just a little hazy, a little dangerous.

Toji leans against the bar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the corded muscle of his arms, veins running like rivers beneath his skin. He’s already a few drinks in, but you’d never know — Toji never loses his edge. He watches you with half-lidded blue eyes, the scar on his lip pulling slightly as he smirks around his drink.

"You gonna chicken out?" His voice is rough, teasing, laced with that low rasp that always seems to settle somewhere deep in your gut.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Of a bellybutton shot? Please."

He hums, tapping the bar top. "Then get your ass up here."

You should say no. You really should. But you don’t. Maybe it’s the tequila. Maybe it’s Toji’s gaze, dark and amused, pinning you in place. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s looking at you like he’s already got the next ten steps planned out. You climb onto the bar, the cool wood against your back a sharp contrast to the heat coursing through your veins.

Toji steps between your legs, crowding into your space like he belongs there. His hand is warm and calloused as he grips your waist, his touch firm even though this is just supposed to be a game as he rucks your shirt up to your ribs, sprinkling the salt just below your navel, before pouring the tequila into your belly button.

"Atta girl," Toji murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear when you don’t flinch at the cool liquid on your skin. “Ready?”