#AND I WAS STARING AT ALL THIS GOING “WHAT WHAT WHAT HUH WHAT WHAT'S HAPPENING” I FEEL SO FLATTERED AND BEWILDERED IN THE BEST WAY POSSIBLE

[sluturu]

bsf fwb!gojo doesn't want you to move on ⋆ mdni — 18+ 𐙚

read about making the bet w bsf!gojo for more context ˆᵕˆ

“would you look at that?” bsf fwb!gojo laughs against your ear. “might wanna redo your makeup once i’m done, angel, you’ve cried it all off.”

he’s not wrong. when you open your eyes and take in the sight in front of you and nearly choke on a sob. you’re a mess– smeared eyeliner, mascara staining your cheeks and lipstick smudged around your mouth– no longer ready for your date that’s 15 minutes from now. 

your best friend has had you wrapped around your finger since the night of the bet– since the night he made you see stars and had you making a mess in his lap– but you want need to move on.

so when you’d told satoru you were ready to start dating again, he thought you were bluffing. how could you want to date anyone else when he was right in front of you? when he’s constantly on top of you? when he always finds himself inside of you? you and him are practically dating. you go out and do couple-y things, you just lack the label. 

and that’s because while both of you have been addicted to each other since that night, neither of you are bold enough to admit that you have feelings for each other. feelings beyond carnal desire.

you’d simply come to the conclusion that your best friend wanted nothing more from you than just sex and you wanted more. now lines are beginning to blur and you wanted to move on before things got messier than they already were.

now that you are moving on– now that you’re going on a date with some fucker who probably doesn’t even deserve you– he’s upset. beyond upset, actually. he’s livid. 

that’s why he bent you over your bathroom’s vanity, pushed your dress up and makeup products to the ground and thought to prove himself to you.

now his hand tugs at your hair, essentially forcing you to stare at yourself in the mirror while he reduces you to a mess like he does every time his cock is inside of you. 

“mmh, could he make you feel as good as i do, huh? you think he knows how to make this pretty pussy feel good?” the question comes through gritted teeth and it finally clicks in your dumb little brain. “i don’t fucking think so.”

“are you j-jealous or something?” you’re able to ask, though it’s choked. his reply never comes, but his thrusts get harsher– merciless– and you take it as a wordless admission, crying out your next words, “me ‘n you are jus’ friends, t-toru!”

he tugs at your hair harder and the other hand that resides on your waist squeezes your skin gratingly. “we’re not just friends and you fucking know it.” he replies, voice hushed and raw with emotion. 

you do. you know it. you and satoru are glued at the hip both figuratively and literally. there’s no one on the earth that makes you feel a quarter of what you feel for him. and you also know there isn’t a single man who could fuck you as well as satoru does. that was the bet that started this after all. 

but when you told him you wanted to start dating again, he brushed you off with a “yeah, right,” and it made you believe that there wasn’t a chance with him. you figured that the idea of you and satoru being together was simply a dream that would never happen.

though, you’re not so sure anymore because he’s spewing out possessive words faster than you can comprehend while his cock stirs you up. 

the reality is, you’ve always had satoru in the palm of your hand. he was whipped. wrapped around your finger. he doesn’t want to share you– he never has and he can’t believe you’ve been this oblivious. 

“he’s never gonna make you feel this good,” he confidently states. “no one is ever gonna make you feel this good– you’re made for me.” 

“fuck!” you cry, tightening around his cock at the affirmation. “satoru, please!”

“that’s it, pretty, say my fuckin’ name.” he moans, sloppily thrusting into you as his mind runs away from him. “look at me and tell me how much you like it.”

your eyes nearly cross as they try to find his in the mirror, but when they finally land on those baby blue orbs that you truly adore, you feel yourself grow even hotter. “love it. i love it, toru.”

he smiles triumphantly like he’s won the lottery. he’s sure that this is better, though. you? admitting to the fact that you love the way he fucks you? fucking priceless. 

“yeah? you love my cock?” he asks, cockily, yet he knows the answer. 

you give him a broken sob with a nod, “so much!”

“then why don’t you cum for me, baby. cum all over this cock ‘n show me how much you love it.” he coaxes breathily, continuing to fuck you into oblivion. “it’s yours. i’m fucking yours.”

you can’t stop yourself as soon as you hear his request. the tight coil in the pit of your tummy comes undone as you sob out his name. you trap his twitching cock between his spasming cunt all the while he fucks you through your blinding orgasm. every second feels more euphoric than the last, more tears running down your face at the pleasure. 

satoru isn’t far behind you with the way you grip him so heavenly. he’s quickly pulling out, the hand in your hair coming to wrap around his cock. you whine at the loss of his warmth, but you’re pleasantly surprised when you hear the lewd noise of his hand vigorously pumping himself and the sounds of his pretty groans. 

he lets out a string of curses, hand moving quicker before his body jerks and his ribbons of his cum spurt out. some of it lands on your bare ass, but the majority ends up on your date outfit. he can’t help but smile at the fact that he’s ruined your pretty outfit. one meant for someone who isn’t him. 

“you know what? i think you should cancel your date.” he pants out. “‘n be sure to tell him that you’re taken now.”

he watches the way you nod with a dazed smile and he can’t help but feel proud of himself. you’re finally his and he’s finally yours. 

© all works belong to SLUTURU 2025. do not copy or repost.

kit’s note. ermmm, bsf to fwb to lovers anyone? this isn’t really a part two, but it is? i hope you enjoy it regardless :* likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3

[junebuggiezz]

Hey uh

Just a suggestion

But what if angst

Like you know the scene from tadc ep 6 where Jax is antagonizing Pomni after the adventure?

What if Jax x gn!reader in a similar situation and reader just... Walks away trying not to cry. Like, it's very obvious they're going to, tears welling, shaky voice that keeps cutting out, moving slow like all the energy was zapped out of them, but GOD FORBID reader lets themself break down in front of him because they just can't trust him now, no matter how much they want to

The Target On Your Back ✦ Jax

𖦹—Wow. If I had a nickel for every breakdown Jax would have in this fictional scenario, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice, right? Also remember when Michael said if Jax was told you "Loved him" he'd go, "Okay then. Prove it." Welllll...

Gender neutral || Jax/Reader? || Jax calls reader "Sweetheart" || Fluff to angst yippee! || Forced proximity || Hurt/no comfort || A pinch of existentialism? || Censored swearing ||

You feel the textured metal tap behind your head, making you jolt in place.

Then, you hear a familiar voice mumble a teasing, "Gotcha."

Your shoulders sag as you let out a huff of air. "Just take my last life, doofus."

He hums in thought. You could practically see his eyes shift and his smile widen as he continued holding the gun to your skull. You suddenly feel nothing.

"Naaaah, I don't wanna waste my bullets on ya."

"Oh [#$%!] you. As if you'd pass on an opportunity handed to you on a silver platter." You laugh while Jax lays the gun on his side. You look around the room, from the ceiling to the floor, even looking behind him, with no Pomni in sight. "Say—Where's your teammate?"

"Oh. Pomni's out trying to find ammo for our guns. I told her to meet up once she got some."

You roll your eyes and smirk. "And you're being helpful by taking the time to talk to me?"

He walks over and sits down next to you. "Letting you know I can shoot you dead now and you'd thank me for it."

"Thought you said you didn't wanna waste your bullets on me."

"That, and I lied." He tells you as he twirls his gun's hook on his finger. "Got no bullets left."

"Oohhhh. You made her your errand girl, huh?" You joke.

"You know me all too well, sweetheart."

You nearly melt, but keep it together.

You look up to the sky as if contemplating. "Y'know... Been noticing you and Pomni talking a bunch. You don't plan on replacing me now, are you?" You lean your head over in his personal space.

"Tch, so you suddenly have the number one spot in the Jax fan club? Barf. Get in line." He snarks jokingly, leaning his head near you as well before the two of you back up.

"Can't help but be jealous. Heck, you even picked her in a team. You've been a bit more open since we did the suggestion box adventures. I'm not actually jealous, but it's nice seeing you getting along with other people around here." You smile. as you turn your head to face him.

Jax's face was normal, but his smile was gone. His lips were flat as he stared at you. But not really? It was like he was just staring without purpose. You furrow an eyebrow.

"Jax?" You call out, which makes him suddenly blink. His smile forms back.

"What were you saying?"

"I said, I'm glad you're getting along with Pomni in the circus! You two are actually getting along. It's a nice thing to see! She really seems to like you more! I mean, not more than me, though." You chuckle.

He lets out a noise of sorts. It was like he puffed out air before speaking. "Do you even like me?" He suddenly asks.

Your smile wavers. That catches you off guard.

You remember back when the two of you were sitting out by the digital lake at night. No romantic gestures; No grandiose; No nervous sweats or shaky voices. You just suddenly felt like it was right.

So you confessed that you liked him.

And he said he liked you, too. A simple sentence with vulnerability attached to it, a thing you didn't point out as a way to keep him comfortable.

The two of you didn't say anything after; You had went back in the tent a few minutes after, allowing Jax to walk you to your room before you went to bed. Nothing had changed, even after Pomni arrived, besides him frequently hanging out with you more and amping the nicknames a bit when you were alone.

So why now?

Why does he sound so accusing, as if you had been lying?

"Of course I do... I lo—"

"No, no, no," He laughs as he waves his pointer finger in your face, "You only like the idea of me. I've been telling ya—everybody's got a place in the archetype stairway, sweetheart. And you're not any different from the other building blocks here, either." He taps his finger to your nose before you slap it away.

"Hey. We're not doing this archetype talk again. Just say you're not comfortable with getting into it." You warn as you shift your eyes away.

"No, no! Let's talk—let's continue this conversation—don't be shy now!"

"Just drop it, okay?" You sneer.

"Whaaat? We were having a good talk, what happened? You nervous? You uncomfortable?" He emphasizes the word as he suddenly wraps an arm around you and pulls you to his torso. You let out a grunt as the side of your face presses near his neck. You immediately push him away from you and give him a frazzled look as you breathe in and out your mouth.

"What is up with you!? You know how I feel about this conversation, Jax—It does make me uncomfortable."

"Uh, yeah, that's why I'm talking about it! It's cute seeing you get tangled up!"

Your face flushes to a split second before you shake your head. "That's not funny, Jax!"

"See? You're clearly the flustered one—"

You stand up and he follows along. A frustrated growl comes out from you.

"You're really proving me right, y'know?"

"Cool—Great—Yes—You're right. Can you drop it now?" You let out a huff as you take a few steps away from him. You then sigh from your mouth. You suddenly groan out, "I just want out..."

"What do you mean?"

You turn to him. "I mean out of this circus. I really do wish there was some sort of easy way out of here."

"I thought you liked us." He mockingly croons.

"I do! I do like you guys. You, especially. I just... want to get out."

He inhales, almost frustratingly so. "Okay. Say you do find an exit. Say that we all get out. What then?"

You rub the back of your neck. "I'd go find you."

He shakes his head and laughs in disbelief. "Be realistic!" He spreads his arms out. "Will we keep our memories? Will we even be alive?

"Don't think like that!"

"I am gonna think like that! You think you have some kind of full-proof plan in this cartoon trash bin? Just let loose! That's what we should be doing right now." He displays his gun and shakes it before laying it back on his side.

"I am letting loose, but you keep letting this conversation go on! So please, just indulge me that we'll end this adventure and talk about this later."

"Why does it matter? When all is said and done and we leave this circus, we'll just go back to our normal lives without the drama! We leave and forget all of this ever happened. And you'll forget me, too." He finalizes confidently.

You let out a noise of offense. "You can't just—? What!? You ASSUME I'll forget you!?"

Jax turns around and rolls his eyes. "I'm not assuming, I'm saying you will."

"OKAY, well, you're wrong!"

"OKAY, well, I'm right!" He retorts.

Your words back up against your throat before you groan, "Jax, come on just—"

"'Jax, c'mon just'!"

You gawk at him. Is he serious?

"I'm not forgetting you!"

"I'M nOt forGETTING yoU!" He mimics.

"Stop it! Just listen to me—"

"'Stop it! JUst LiSTen TO ME'!"

"'JAX'!"

"'JAX!'" He whines with the same volume as you. His smile was slightly wobbled in doing so. "You can literally walk away from this conversation or shoot me!" He gestures his gun to his head as if he shot himself. "Why are you wasting your time just having an argument with me when you could be taking a life from me?"

"I PUT UP WITH YOU S[#!^] BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, DUMB[@$$]!"

His face goes blank.

Then his smile reappears.

"Okay then." He shrugs. "Prove it."

"...What?"

"No stupid true love's kiss—no death-squeezing hug—think of something that you truly believe will make your argument solid. How can you prove that you love me and that we had some sort of thing goin' on?" He rolls his head in exaggeration.

You stammer in disbelief. "When I literally told you I liked you? You said it back?"

"Yeah. I said it back, like anyone would, so you wouldn't cry about being rejected."

"When I told you my actual fear!"

"Everyone fears getting abstracted here, so be more original."

"When we started to hang out solo from the others before and after Pomni arrived!? When we would sneak into each other's rooms to do so without ANYONE noticing so you could keep your dumb reputation!" You aggressively point at him.

"Hit the nail on the mark!" He swoons sarcastically, leaning back dramatically.

"I HAVE THE KEY TO YOUR ROOM!" You yell as you dig into your pocket and hold the key out in your balled fist.

Jax cackles. "It's just a key!" Your arm slightly goes limp as he continues, "You think 'cause you have a fake key to a fake room means we're suddenly all mushy? Man, you are a hoot!"

"But you—Y-You-" You audibly swallow the tightness in your throat, "No one comes to your room... I... am the only one who's been doing that." Your attempt to keep yourself from tearing up, making your voice crack.

You can't cry here. Not now.

Jax clamps his hands together and tucks it under his chin, blinking his lashes. "'Cause nobody wants to visit the big, meanie, Jaxy-boy! I don't wanna hang with 'em, either. It's a waste of time, and I get to mess with them when I go on those STUPID, fake adventures!"

Your breath shutters. It was a mix between multiple emotions at once; Anger; Heartbreak; Denial; All combining into one, forcing out a pitied laugh for yourself, like a cruel joke had been thrown at you.

"Then what about this... W-What about us...?"

Jax lets the pause build.

His smile slightly widens with a face akin to mocking.

He speaks, his voice flat.

"There was no 'us'." He states. "You just believed there was 'cause your just as lonely as everybody else is."

You shutter again. You felt like you were going crazy. Anger begins to overwhelm your body.

"So that's it then!?" Your eyes fog and your mouth wobbles. "What about everything that I did and said to the others to make you look good—"

"Oh my GOD! What are you not getting!?" He begins to speed walk towards you. You let out a whimper as you nearly trip backwards and push yourself against a nearby wall. Jax stops in front of you, far to leave a gap, but close enough to see his pupils shrunken into tiny squares. "What don't you UNDERSTAND!? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO CLING ONTO!? By the end of it all, everyone's crying about lonesome! At some point in time, you'll abstract in this place, and there will be a funeral for you!"

You feel the air from your lungs get ripped from your throat as Jax's eyes linger on your face.

His smile was gone and you felt with every word he spoke he dug into your skin, tearing you into pieces.

His voice becomes low, as if he were whispering a secret to you alone. "By then... I won't even remember you've abstracted. Maybe I'll even forget you entirely." His pupils slowly begin to expand back to normal as he hovers by your shaking figure.

"I won't have to worry about you anymore."

Cotton fills your ears as noise begins to ring in your head. You let out one more shuttered noise before you shoot up and shoulder check him roughly as you speed off.

Hell if you knew where to go or even if you had a destination in mind.

You just needed away from him as soon as possible.

Just as you were away from hearing distance, Pomni came running back near Jax's side. She runs up next to him, waving the different types of ammunition in the air. He quickly puts on his famous smile.

"I got it! I got ammo for our guns!" She exclaims happily as she looks up at him.

He lays a hand to his chest "Heh. That's a relief. Almost thought you left me for a second."

"You did what I said? You kept your ammo full while I was gone, right?"

"'Course I did! I'm a stickler for the rules, Pomni." He teases as he unclips and spins the barrel of his pistol, counting all the bullets that had been left untouched. He clips it back on.

Pomni rolls her eyes, which allows her to take notice of your figure walking away. "You told them you'd spare them, didn't you?" She teases without taking her eyes away from you.

He lifts his gun, pointing it to the back of your head.

"Yeeeup..." He mutters, his voice deepening, "Been lying to 'em from the start."

He holds his finger to the trigger and sighs longingly. "They shouldn't have put so much faith in me."

And he shoots.

𖦹—Dear Princess Celestia, I fear the Jax nation is burning in flames. Signed, your student, Twili sparbkle

[sabxhere]

RAI, YOU DON'T GET IT, YOU DON'T GET IT, I WAS AT FAMILY DINNER WHEN I SAW THIS ABSOLUTE FUCKING MASTERPIECE AND THIS WAS MY FUCKASS REACTION

I WANTED TO CRY AND I COULDN'T, I WAS TWEAKING SO BAD, I COULDN'T EVEN RB AT THE TIME, I WAS GOING CRAZY, RAIIIIIIWBHWBWHWBWJWJW😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

I think I got like, SO MANY heartthrobs while reading this comic that I've almost got a heart attack, RAI, YOU'RE GONNA KILL ME AND I WOULDN'T EVEN BE MAD AT IT, CAUSE I'D BE ASCENDING AFTER READING THIS OH MY GOD, YOU JUST KEEP COOKING AND COOKING, HUH,,,,YOU JUST KEEP MAKING BANGER AFTER BANGER, GORGEOUS PIECE AFTER PIECE, HUH, OH MY GOD, SOBBING SO FUCKING LOUDLY ON THE FLOOR, RAI OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD RAI PLEAAAAASE, PLEASE PLEASEEEEEE😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

I have SO MANY THOUGHTS about this that I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE START, FUCK, UMMMMMMMM, FIRST OF ALL☝️☝️☝️FIRST👏OF👏ALL👏 THERE WILL NEVER BE A DAY WHERE MY ASS WILL NOT MARVEL AT YOUR ARTSTYLE, diva, your style is literally so inspiring, whether you draw comics or simple sketches of the characters, cause you can see SO MUCH personality infused in every line, in every expression and body language and movements the characters make, it's literally like watching a professional's storyboards and I'm always in such such awe, GODDDDD, PLEASE, YOUR CHARACTER DESIGNS, GONNA HAVE ME DROPPING ON MY KNEES AND SCREAM, RAIIIIIII, RAI PLEASE😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Okay, cracking my knuckles. Cracking my neck. Saving all the drawings in my photo gallery so I can Stare at them forever and point out exactly what I love the most (spoiler: it's everything). Alright, let's do this gang🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

One of my favorite things of this comic (and in general of yours) is your impeccable pacing: your ability to stretch out a moment that technically, if it happened irl would last half a second, yet comics give you the chance to stretch it, make you stay in the moment longer and see and imagine every feeling the character is feeling. You mastered that ability in such an incredible way, like the three panels of petey waking up at the start, or when he reacts when he sees grace, or when him and her are hugging and then she starts to pull him towards the other end of the bridge. Ohhhhh it tugs at your heartstrings just right, reallyyyyy makes you stay in that moment, feel every emotion in full, and compel you to re-read them a lot of times. It's also something dav pilkey is really good at in his own comics, and yours really reminded me of them, IT'S SO GOOD, feels very very canon, I DUNNO HOW TO EXPLAIN IT???? I'M CRAZY, PUT ME DOWN RN WBEHWHWHNWNWJWJWNW

OH HEY!!!! You know the panels where lil petey wakes up from the beep of his heart stopping??? And is confused, not understanding what's happening??? And that petey had a hand on his back and it shows it falling lifelessly on the bed while lil petey tries to wake him??? Hahaha!!!! Hahahaha!!!!! HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAA

I had a totally normal reaction to it!!! I was incredibly normal and non crazy, dooooon't even worry about it rai, DON'T WORRY, LAUGHING MANICALLY ON THE EDGE OF A RAVINE, YES YES, MHM!!!!! MHM MHM MHM, TWEAKING

On a less crazy note, FUCK are you good at angles, the shot of petey looking around and us viewers looking at him from the ground, him being framed by clouds, UGHHHHH, WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL, SHAKING, TWEAKING, ABSOLUTELY SCRUMPTIOUS, CAN I EAT YOUR ART PLEASEEEEEEHWHWHWHWH💖💖💖💖💖💖💖grace being illuminated, like she's the one emitting the light while standing on the bridge, omg, GRACE MY BELOVED FOREVER AND EVER😭😭😭💖💖💖💖And oh my god, poor dogman, he must have been worried sick for petey even before having been woken up by lil petey, seeing his eye bags, the utter panic seeing petey dying, oh my poor darling😭😭😭💔💔💔AND LIL PETEY FEELING LOST AND CONFUSED LIKE NEVER BEFORE, BEING ALL ALONE WHILE SOMETHING IS HAPPENING TO HIS PAPA, not knowing quite the gravity of the situation, oh my god, he looks so tiny and afraid in the panel where he's asking what's happening, all alone😭😭😭😭😭

The heart wrenching parallel of petey hugging grace and pulling her closer while the medics and dogman are trying to separate lil petey (granted, for petey's own good, but lil petey doesn't know that, thinking his papa was getting better and not worse), it's both sweet and stabs at my heart, because of course it makes me happy to see him finally seeing grace again, considering how much petey loves his mother and she loved him, but the realization that this is only possible because he's between life and death and possibly leaving lil petey and dogman forever is so incredibly sad, the panic and distress I was feeling when seeing lil petey gripping at the sheets with his nails and screaming for him while scratching dogman in an attempt to get free, and when grace starts to pull petey towards the other side, oh my GODDDDDD, DON'T TOY WITH MY HEART RAI, DOOOOON'T EVEN JOKE ABOUT THAT, I WAS ABOUT TO PULL A LIL PETEY AND RIP AT CURTAINS WITH MY BARE NAILS FROM DISTRESS, WHEHJWJWJWJW😭😭😭😭😭

The moment where he tells her he can't!!! Made me almost gasp out loud irl, I WAS BREATHING A BIG ASS SIGH OF RELIEF, also also the panels of the doctors wheeling away petey with dm and lp getting smaller and smaller, hhhh, lil petey in general going in panic mode, and fighting the medics and dogman was UGHHHHHH, IT WAS ACTUALLY SO WELL EXECUTED, I imagine petey didn't know it would get this bad, and constantly reassured lil petey he would get better soon, and lp obviously believing him wholeheartedly, my god, the medics looming over him look so scary, IT'S HIS TURN TO GET TRAUMATIZED BY HOSPITALS AND MEDICS NOW, AFTER PETEY AND DOGMAN, I GUESS!!!! LAUGHING ONLY FOR LAUGHTER TO TURN INTO UNCONSOLABLE CRYING, GODDDDDD, "He never liked those anyway!!!" Referring to syringes and the IV??? I imagine the defibrillator ofc hasn't been used on petey before, and lp didn't even know what it was, but lord, it's just so eueueueuhh, my godddddd😭😭💔💔💔💔

The whole sequence of lp lashing out at dm verbally is VWHWHWNWNWNW I WANNA SCREAM AND CRY, I KEEP LOOKING AT IT AND FEELING MY HEART SHATTER, CAUSE THEY BOTH HAVE MY FULL SYMPATHY AND UNDERSTANDING, like, dogman must already feel awful having 1. fear of hospitals after what last happened to him in one 2. feeling worried sick over petey BEFORE the almost death scare 3. THE DEATH SCARE AND BEING SCRATCHED TO HELL AND BACK BY LIL PETEY and at last lil petey's words, LIKE, he for sure doesn't realize it, but if he hadn't acted so rapidly calling the medics and removing lil petey from petey, petey would probably VERY MUCH not be alive anymore.

And yet, he feels so guilty. Like, even without him saying any words, it's so clear he feels such immense guilty about "failing" petey and lil petey, and on top of that not knowing if petey will be okay, the person he loves and co-parents with maybe being gone forever, he can only pray they can save him, and then hearing his fears about failing them being confirmed by lil petey's words, IT'S JUST FUCKING ME UP SO MUCH, GENUINELY WHAT THE FUCKKKK😭😭😭😭

TORN BETWEEN WANTING TO GIGGLE AND CRY BETWEEN THE SILLIER/MORE LIGHTHEARTED MOMENTS BALANCED BY THE HEAVIER ONES, like lp pulling a NO MANCHES pose and dm and him howling, which is both really sweet and sad, ughhh, my little favorite father and son duo😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖

"What is the scariest horror movie to you?" "Idk man, probably Lil Petey's realization of how Dogman isn't an invincible hero and that there are some things he can't change, along with his abandonment issues being very highlighted and fearing his Papa will abandon him again" KILL MEEEEEEEJWJWHWJWJWJ

I'm yapping WAY too much about it, like, I could forever, but goodness gracious, I'll try to be more speedy: Petey not wanting to leave Lil Petey, cause he loves and cares about him so much and they both need each other!!! HOW SWEET AND CUTE THE MOMENTS WHERE HE MENTIONS DM ARE, DESPITE HIM TRYING TO DOWNPLAY IT (and also how already dm being there for lp is such a huge difference compared to how alone pt was when grace was dying), GRACE. JUST. GRACE. HER EVERYTHING, HOW MUCH SHE LOVES AND IS PROUD OF HER SON, THEIR FINAL HUG AND HOW SHE CALLS HIM "MY PETEY" AUGHHHHH😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖YOUR DESIGN FOR HER, SO FLUFFY AND ADORABLE, I LOVE PARTICULARLY HER TAIL, AND HOW IN THE HUG THEY WRAP THEIR TAILS AROUND THE OTHERHWWHBWNWEN

The way you draw watery eyes, MY GOD, AND THE SCENE WITH DOGMAN TRYING TO COMFORT LP BY LICKING HIS HEAD, which, it could just be a dogman thing, but knowing how enthusiastic his normal licks are, this seems more like he's imitating how petey (how cats in general) maybe licks lil petey's head to groom him, LIL PETEY TRYING TO COMFORT HIMSELF BY DRAWING HIS FAMILY, RAI, STOP TWISTING THE KNIFE, GIRL, OH MY GYATT, I'M ALREADY DEADBWHWBWHW😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔💔

The scene with the medic!!! HOW HAOPY THEY LOOK!!! THE SILHOUETTES, HOW DM JUMPS THEM, HAHAHAHAHA

Petey's instinct, once waking up, to immediately hold Lil Petey closer, LIL PETEY'S TEAR TRACKS AHHHHH😭😭😭😭😭DOGMAN STILL, STILL STAYING BY PETEY'S SIDE, THROUGHOUT EVERYTHING. THAT'S MY FUCKING GOAT. THAT'S ONE HELL OF A DOGMAN, THAT'S HUSBAND MATERIAL BRO, PETEY, BRO, PLEASEEEEEE, LOOK AT HIM, BRO YOU GYATT TO PROPOSE OR SOMETHING IDK OMGGWHWBWHWBWH😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖the "sniff" waking dm up, how petey keeps STARING at him, missed him much, bro??? Missed his cute little face much??? Unsurprised about how much he cares about you, but still grateful??? Want to kiss his face silly??? THEN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, JEEZ, MYYYYY GOD, ROLLING MY EYES HWHWHWNWJWJWJWJW

The *cough* HAHAHAHA FOLLOWED BY "dude, you look like shit" BRO, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HE WENT THROUGH, CACKLING SO BAD, THAT'S SO IN CHARACTER FOR HIM ACTUALLY, OMG, SCREAMING, THEY'RE SO FUCKING CUTEEEEEE, THE WAY DM JUMPS HIM, AWWWWWWWW😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖

I love how dogman wants to give them some space/time to talk on their own, but is SO HAPPY HE JUST. RUNS AROUND HIS BAD. MY GOAT, MY ADORABLE GOAT HAS ZOOMIES, THE CUTIE EVER, HE LOVES HIS CAT UNOFFICIAL HUSBAND SO BADDDDD, GOD😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖

SOBBING AT MY SON CRYING, LIL PETEYYYYY😭😭😭😭😭LOVE HOW PETEY IMMEDIATELY REASSURED HIM WITH THE SAME WORDS HE TOLD HIM IN THE COMICS, THE ONES GRACE TOLD HIM BEFORE, AHHHHHHH, her love truly does live forever and ever in them, huh😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖PETEY PULLING AT HIS FACE EXASPERATED IS SO FUCKING FUNNY, I LOVE HIS EXPRESSIONS AFTER DM LICKS HIM AGAIN AND LP TELLS HIM DM LOVES HIM TOO, HAHAHAHAHA, AND HOW DM AND LP IMMEDIATELY START TO RUN AROUND HIS BAD IN ULTRA ZOOMIES MODE, SO SWEET AND ADORABLE, LIKE FATHER LIKE SON, TRULY, AND HOW PETEY AT FIRST IS ANNOYED OR PRETENDS TO BE, ONLY TO LOOK AT THEM AND BE SO CHARMED😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖

THE WAY I SCREAMED WHEN PETEY LICKED THEM IS UNREAL, THE STUPIDDDDD, OMG, IT'S BOTH SO SILLY BUT ALSO A WAY FOR HIM TO TRY TO BOND WITH THEM, CAUSE LIKE, HE KNOWS LP IMITATES DM, AND PT WANTED TO JOIN IN ON THE DOGLIKE ACTIVITIES AND AFFECTIONATE GESTURE, THAT'S HELLA HELLA ADORABLE, MY GOD😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖AND GOW HE TICKLES LP AT THE END??? WBEJWBWJWNWNWN GRACE WATCHING OVER THEMMMMMM😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Wake me up (more down below uwu)

CONTEXT: (I only have this ss on twitter cuz I didn't copy paste it :v)

[sajakissed]

if it isn't too much trouble could u write saja boys separately x reader with a large chest? general and suggestive/nsfw if u don't mind 🙏 tysm 🩷

it’s a handful

tags: fluff then suggestive, big chested reader, established relationship

🫧 Masterlist

🎐 MYSTERY

Mystery wasn’t usually the type to get flustered. He had the whole unreadable, composed thing down perfectly. But tonight, when you walked into the room wearing that fitted sweater, he froze mid-sentence.

“What?” you asked, blinking at him as you set down the snacks.

“Nothing.” He coughed, averting his gaze too quickly.

You tilted your head, a sly smile forming. “Mystery. You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

He clicked his tongue, pretending to refocus on the music sheet in front of him. But the tips of his ears were scarlet. When you sat down beside him and leaned in to peek at his notes, the brush of your chest against his arm made the tip of his pen slip right across the page.

“See?” you teased. “You are distracted.”

Mystery finally looked at you then, his eyes sharp but flustered, a rare crack in his composure. 

“You don’t play fair,” he muttered.

“And you don’t hide it well,” you whispered back, leaning just a little closer.

His jaw flexed, and then he set his pen down entirely. “If you’re going to keep testing me like this,” his voice dropped, low and deliberate, “then don’t blame me when I stop holding back.”

🌀 BABY

You’d stolen one of Baby’s hoodies again, the oversized fabric practically swallowing you whole. He’d been scrolling on his phone when you walked into the room, but the moment he saw you tugging the sleeves up with that mischievous smile, he froze.

“That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” you teased, plopping down beside him.

His eyes narrowed, but there was amusement there. “You’re lucky you look good in it.” His gaze lingered, dark and slow, taking in the way the hoodie pulled across your chest.

Baby bit his lip without meaning to, turning his phone face-down. “Actually way too good,” he muttered under his breath.

You caught it, smirking. “What was that?”

He shot you a sharp look, then suddenly leaned closer until his nose brushed your cheek. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he whispered, his tone dropping to something thicker, hungrier. His hand tugged lightly at the hem of the hoodie.

“You walk in here like that and expect me to do nothing?” His laugh was low, almost dangerous. “Not happening.”

🌷 ROMANCE

It was quiet that afternoon in your living room. It was the kind of quiet Romance loved. Pages turning, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and you curled up beside him in one of the oversized chairs with your own book.

He wasn’t reading. Not really. He’d been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes because every time he tried to focus, his gaze slid sideways toward you. The way you tucked your knees up into the chair, the way you absentmindedly bit your lip while reading. It was all unbearably distracting.

You shifted slightly, stretching your arms above your head, and the hem of your shirt pulled just enough for him to forget what words even looked like. He swallowed hard, darting his eyes back to his book when you glanced his way.

“Why are you staring?” you asked softly, your lips twitching into a knowing smile.

Romance froze. “I wasn’t—I mean—” He shut the book too quickly, cheeks heating. “I was just…admiring the view.”

You laughed quietly, leaning over until you were closer to him. “The view, huh?”

“Mm,” he hummed, trying for nonchalant, but his ears betrayed him, flushed pink. His hand fidgeted with the corner of his page, but then his gaze slipped again — downward, lingering for a beat too long. 

He caught himself and let out a low groan, covering his face with his hand. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

🍿 ABBY

You’d been complaining about the summer heat all day, tugging at your oversized shirt and fanning yourself dramatically. Abby, sprawled across the bed with his phone in hand, kept snickering at your antics.

“You’re so dramatic,” he teased. “Come here, I’ll cool you down.”

You raised a brow but climbed onto the bed anyway, laying beside him. Abby instantly hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you against his chest, his grin smug. “See? Perfect.”

“You’re literally a heater,” you groaned. “This isn’t helping.”

“Mm, but it helps me.” He nuzzled into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin. His hand, warm and large, shifted from your waist upward. At first it was innocent, just holding you, but then his fingers flexed a little too deliberately.

You turned your head, catching the mischievous spark in his eyes. “Abby.”

“What?” His grin widened. “I’m just appreciating how you’ve been blessed. And I’m not about to let that blessing go unappreciated.” His hand cupped you shamelessly now, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch.

Your protest melted into a quiet laugh as he leaned in closer, whispering against your lips, “I could get addicted to this, you know. To you.”

🎶 JINU

Jinu had you tucked under his arm on the couch, your head resting against his chest as a drama played faintly in the background.

He wasn’t paying attention to the show at all, not when he could focus on the soft warmth of you pressed against him. You shifted slightly, sitting up straighter, and the motion made his eyes flick downward for just a second.

“Mm,” he hummed, pretending to adjust the blanket when really he was giving himself an excuse to look at the way your shirt stretched. “You know, sometimes I think you’re trying to distract me on purpose.”

You blinked at him, a laugh leaving your lips. “Distract you? We’re literally watching TV, Jinu.”

“Exactly,” he leaned closer, brushing his nose against yours. “And yet, all I can see is you.”

When your chest brushed against him again, he let out a low breath and tucked you closer, his palm flattening against your side.

“You have no idea how hard it is to behave when you’re like this,” he whispered, voice softer, lower. His thumb grazed the curve of your chest ever so lightly.

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Too perfect. Too much for me to handle sometimes.” His lips trailed down to your collarbone, lingering. “And maybe I don’t want to behave anymore.”

[yeonmuse]

HC ━━ MY GIRLFRIENDS A CHEATER 𓈒

ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴs 𓂃 your boyfriends reaction to finding out you’re going to see another idol

۶ৎ ) boyfriend enha ──── ot7 x fem! fluff established relationship, - ͙۪۪̥˚┊❛ nais library ❜┊˚͙۪۪̥◌

nais notes: day two of writing silly little drabbles until my motivation to write big fics returns to me

LHS

“Baby I need your help.” you call out to your boyfriend as you view your backside from your bathroom mirror. you had laced up your corset as far as it could go but tight was simply not tight enough, especially knowing it would loosen the moment you tried to tie it on your own.

heeseung eventually appears in your shared bathroom, a headset around his neck, as per usual he’d been playing games with his free time away from work. “baby did you call?”

“I did I need your help, can you tighten this please.” heeseung takes a moment to eye you and your outfit as if finally realizing you were all dressed up like you are meant to be going somewhere— somewhere without him. his brows furrowed together as he slips behind you, tightening the laces until you yourself had no room to breathe before tying into two perfect loops.

“you look pretty, where are you going?” he complements, placing a loving kiss on the exposed skin of your back before taking in your appearance in the mirror.

“txt fansign event.” at the mention of his sunbaes his face immediately turns sour, like he’d just heard something that made his stomach turn.

“hold on.” you stare at him a confused look on your face as he pulls off his headphones and dials a number on his phone before bringing it to his ear.

“heeseung who are you calling-” before you could further question you heard the other line click then you heard a facial voice on the other line.

“Yeah soobin, can you have your staff let me through your event today?” your eyes widen at your boyfriends request, this was meant to be your away time and your moment to finally have your pocas and albums signed and he’d decided to impose.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll owe you one. alright thanks.” you stood there blinking as he hang up the phone before shooting you a cheeky smile.

“Looks like we’re going together princess.” he places a cheek on your kiss before heading for the closet for what you assumed was to get changed.

“lee heeseung! did you just invite yourself to my fansign!?” you yell at him from your place in the bathroom, still in complete shock that that had happened.

“our fansign, ill be damned if i let choi soobin and choi yeonjun hold your hand without my supervision.” you let out a laugh in disbelief before staring at yourself in the mirror trying to come to grasp with the fact that your boyfriend’s jealously caused him call his sunbae just so you weren’t going to this event alone.

PJS

you had been in the bathroom putting on your makeup when you felt two arms snake around your waist from behind followed by a string of kisses on your neck.

“you look beautiful baby, are you going out today?” he asks, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and inhaling your scent— a scent he’d grown to love on you because it always made you smell so irresistible.

“mhm! i got tickets to see andteam tonight so im getting ready early.” you could feel him stiffen at the mention of his brother group.

“I’m sorry you’re going where?”

“andteam concert?” your brows furrow in confusion, it slightly irritates him the way you look at him so innocently, as if you didn’t just tell him you were going to see another group that wasn’t him and his members.

“no.” he responds in short, his arms tightening around you and his face burrying deeper into your neck. “Huh? What did you mean no.”

“I don’t want you to go, can’t you just stay home with me? I’ll play for you, you always like when i play guitar and I’ve been working on some new songs stay with me and listen?”

“Park jongseong are you jealous?” you can’t hide the smile on your face as you turn to look at him, his expression giving away his feelings the moment your eyes are set upon his.

“and if i am? will you stay home?” he asks, fingers tracing circles on your waist as he held you close to him.

“hm let me think about it…” you gave a mock thinking expression before a smile curls into your lips. “nope still going, you’ll just have to go without me for the day.” you tease before turning back towards the mirror to do the finishing touches on your makeup.

“you enjoy watching me lose my mind a little too much” he comments, not missing the laugh that spills from your lips.

“I think you’ll survive me going to a concert that isn’t yours just this once.” he groans in response, his expression having gone from annoyed to sulky in mere seconds but you can’t help but laugh at how cute it was.

SJY

“baby did you want to watch a movie tonight? we can order some takeout like always or go out and get snacks if you’d prefer that.” jake storms into your shared bedroom with the energy of a golden retriever, tearing your attention away from your phone and a gallery full of pre concert photos. as he spots you sat on the bed all dolled up as if you had been preparing to leave his brows scrunch together.

“wait are we going out? did i forget about a date or something. Fuck i didn’t forget about an anniversary or anything right?” he panics, not giving you much time to respond before he’d already been coming up with forgotten dates he’d only made up in his head.

“jakey relax, you didn’t forget any dates or anniversaries you can breathe. I’m getting ready for a p1 concert.” the words fell from your ears to jakes like a confession of sin.

“Oh- i didn’t ever think my girlfriend would turn out like this.” he responds, making your brows furrow in confusion.

“jake what are you talking about?”

“my girlfriends a cheater.” he responds, making you shake your head at his dramatics.

“jake I’m just going to enjoy the concert with some friends, its not like I’m going there expecting to makeout with Keeho or Jiung.” his eyes widen and he falls face first onto the bed as if he had just been struck in the heart.

“She wants to makeout with other men.” he mumbles, his words muffled by his face having been smooshed against the covers. shaking your head at him you give his butt a playful smack making him jump up.

“sim jaeyun, can you please pull it together I’m just going to enjoy the music not find an entire new boyfriend.”

“what if you go and you like their performance better than ours.” he questions, a pout on his lips at the mere thought of losing you to another idol.

“you’ll always be my number one, since iland i knew you’d be mine and no one else, you’ve always had my heart even before your debut so stop sulking and stop making up all these fake scenarios in your head. I’m not going to get stolen.” your words seemed to do the trick, wiping the pout from his face and putting a smile on it as he looks up at you while resting his face against your stomach.

“alright i believe you, but dont scream too loud for them, dont want them to get a big head and think that you like them better.” you can’t help but laugh, nor could you hide the amused expression on your face at his words

“right right.” you giggle as he pulls you down onto the bed engulfing you in a hug.

PSH

when sunghoon heard the words “ateez fansign” spill from your lips he immediately laughs assuming it had to be some sort of joke or prank you’d been pulling on him. you blink at him, figuring your boyfriend had officially lost his marbles and when he sees that you aren’t laughing along with him it clicks that you weren’t just telling some joke you were being serious. the smile is wiped from his face within seconds.

“You’re telling me you paid to go look into the eyes of another man when you have me at home? yeah hell no, I’m coming with.”

“i don’t- sunghoon what am I gonna do carry you in my bag? What do you mean you’re coming with me? I already paid to go alone.” you respond, stuffing your phone in your purse. every word just fell upon deaf ears, the idea of you traveling just to do high touch and talk to other idols made annoyance flare up within him.

“I don’t care I’m going. i need to make sure they aren’t looking at you too deeply or being too touchy. matter of fact I’ll sit next to you if i have to.” a breathy laugh of disbelief comes spilling from your lips at your boyfriends active jealousy.

“hoon you know you can’t just invite yourself to a fansign, you know how they work.” you tell him, but he immediately counters your words with his own

“I’m familiar with a few of the members, ill make sure i get in.” he responds, not an ounce of playfulness in his tone which meant your fate had already been sealed and he was most definitely coming with.

“Don’t you think you’re being just a little dramatic?” you ask, a question which he ignores as he heads straight from the closet. “park sunghoon are you ignoring me?”

“call it what you want, my girlfriend wants to go out and be perceived by other men that aren’t me, I’m not allowing it to fly on my watch.”

KSN

“I’m prettier, why would you want to ever look at anyone else?” those are the first words that leave his mouth when he finds out you’re attending another idols fansign event.

“But you’re my boyfriend i get to go to every concert, i want to experience them at least once.” sunoo immediately side eyes you before returning his attention to his phone.

“you’re really going to watch someone else? who else could you possibly be happy looking at when you have me at home?” he questions, mindlessly scrolling through weverse and answering every few questions.

“but their concerts look fun-“

“So what you’re saying is youre being swayed by them ? You have a handsome boyfriend that can sing, dance, dress nice, give you everything you want and you’re being swayed? Yeah hate it, don’t like it at all.” he responds, shaking his head and tossing his phone off to the side, you roll your eyes in response. The two of you were often like this, petty banter between the two of you over the smallest things or exchanging dirty looks with one another when it came to little petty discussions, but it made your relationship all the more entertaining.

“too bad I’m going, yujin calls to me.” you respond teasingly, knowing you’d be met with an mean eyeroll in response.

“whatever, yujin isn’t the one that takes you shopping, and buys you food or sings to only you in a crowd full of people.”

“you don’t know that he might.” you respond annoyingly, scrunching up your nose at him.

“doesnt matter, i know either way you’re coming home to me.” he shrugs it off, making your lips firm into a defeated pout.

YJW

“so how do I look, i have two hours until the souncheck and I’ve already changed my makeup three times?” you ask, stepping in front of your boyfriend and giving him a spin so that he could see your outfit in its entirety. his gaze shifts down to the poca holder on your waist that now housed a photocard that surely wasn’t his. His face immediately scrunches up in distaste and his lips press into a thin line. you watch as he pulls out his phone assuming he’s preparing to take photos of you like always when you showed off your concert outfits, but instead he brings the phone to his ear.

“won?” your lips poke out and your brows frown in confusion

“hold on I’m calling the members.” he says sitting up in his spot on the couch but it doesn’t make you any less confused.

“why are you calling the members?” you ask, confusion evident in your voice.

“they need to know you’re betraying us, and cheating on me all in one night.” he responds, and you shake your head making your way over to him to hang up the phone.

“yang jungwon can you stop being dramatic for five seconds to tell your girlfriend she looks pretty.” you scold him, watching as his face screws in distaste.

“You’re going to see another man in concert when your man is in enhypen? tell jaehyun to call you pretty since you have him on your hip instead of me.” he responds making you roll your eyes at the petty response.

“jungwon you’re acting like I’m actually cheating.” you respond shaking your head at him and his face immediately scrunches up.

“you may as well you’re going to see his souncheck, concert, and he’s on your hip.” jungwon responds with a huff, puffing his bangs from in front of his face out of frustration, he was obviously jealous.

“you’re such an idiot.” you respond, plopping down into his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I still love enhypen, i still love the members and i certainly still love you and let’s not forget YOURE my boyfriend not myungjae.”

he eventually sighs and gives in wrapping his arm around your waist and holding you closer as you shower him with kisses “if you come home with any fancams, don’t be shocked they’re gone from your phone tomorrow.” he warns, earning a giggle from you.

NMR

niki knew you well enough to now that whenever he walked into your bedroom and found an outfit laid out all pretty on the bed that it was concert day. the only problem with that today was that it was his day off and they had no concerts scheduled any time soon. his eyes shift to the poca resting at the side of your outfit. the poca holder he got for you now holding the photocard of an andteam member.

you just been stepping out of the shower by the time he left your room, only to find that your entire outfit and your poca was gone, not at all where you left it. your face contorts in confusion as you searched everywhere for it, thinking maybe you thought you put it out when in reality it had still been in the closet but no luck.

“niki?” you trudged down the hall with padded footsteps, towel wrapped snug around your body as you made your way into the living room where niki sat on the couch scrolling through his phone as if he hadn’t heard you call him.

“niki did you take my concert fit?” you question him, watching the way he shifts in his seat while scrolling through his phone.

“you mean the one that was on the bed? i put it somewhere you can’t find it.” he responds, a satisfied grin on his face as he finally looks up from his phone.

“what? why? niki i have to leave in three hours, i really don’t have time to play around right now and theres probably people already lining up.” you complain making him shrug his shoulders. “guess you can’t go then.”

“niki, are you seriously doing this right now?” you huff crossing your arms over your chest.

“no outfit, no concert. guess you’re staying home with me.” he crosses his arms over his chest and sits back in his seat, the annoyed look on your face giving him all the satisfaction he needed.

“nishimura riki if you don’t give me my outfit back i will walk out that door with this towel on.” you threaten, your hand on your showing you meant business. you and niki both knew that it was a threat you’d go through with. the smile was immediately wiped from his face upon hearing your threat.

“not funny yn.”

“oh but it’ll be real funny seeing you trying to stop me from getting out that door with nothing but this towel.” you retort, making him scoff and finally get up from the couch.

“you piss me off.” he responds, making his way over to the hallway closet and grabbing your concert outfit from a box sitting on the top shelf. he hands it off to you with a distasteful look on his face.

“thank you.” you respond with a cheeky grin, placing a kiss on his cheek before disappearing into your shared bedroom to finally make use of the time you had left

PERM TAGLIST: @sol3chu @addictedtohobi @heartheejake @gweoriz @annybah @iarainha @nishimura-mimura @gweoriz @deaddcrow @bbangbies @kimuranirisi @wonzzziezzzz @dazeymazey11 @stayar1 @neogotmysam @starsmew @taystarr @icatpjs @sunshisthings @hwang-hynjin @joneborder @izzyy-stuff @claumbeju @bubblytaetae @imzhouxinyu @firstclassjaylee @i-am-not-dal @luvjichang @lveegsoi @soobundle1009 @juliejulesjule @zoe1love @mymayaship @miirtilosazuis @cursedcursives @yourgirlyoi @riribelle @rikchic @laya18 @lakoya @jaysguitarstring @vampjakey @melodisic @kiwicup @baybayyy @matchacake2 @wontechno @sannieflix @pookalicious-hq

[faithscherry]

Our little secret | H.S

𝐏𝐭.𝟐 | 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 & 𝐲/𝐧’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Pairing: best friend’s dad harry x reader

Warnings: angst, verbal cruelty, toxic dynamic, sexual content, age gap (40 x 20)

Wc: 3k

Summary: after giving in to temptation, Harry is consumed by guilt and lashes out at y/n, who struggles with hurt and anger, leaving both of them tangled in regret, tension, and unresolved desire.

A/n: thank you so much for all the feedback on part 1. I hope you like having both Harry and y/n’s POV. If you want me to go back to writing in second person, let me know! I wrote this one in past tense as well, it’s just what came more naturally to me in the moment. If you don’t like it please tell me! Don’t hate me for this!! Harry is diabolical at the end I know, but this is the idea that came into my head. Harry will have a redemption arc, I promise!! Don’t hesitate to give me feedback, if you’d like this story line to go a certain way, If you have any ideas for it, dm me, comment or send me an ask! Enjoy 💋

Divider by @/cursed-carmine

© 2025 faithscherry—all rights reserved. Reproduction, redistribution, or translation without permission is prohibited.

—

Harry Styles POV

Last night I crossed a line that I couldn’t ever uncross. This morning, I found myself staring at my reflection after I’d brushed my teeth, battling in my head about what I’d became—the man who gave in to temptation and fucked his daughter’s bestfriend who’s half his age.

The thought made me feel sick to my stomach. Emily would’ve hated me—hated you if she ever found out. We were the two people in my daughter’s life that she trusted and felt like she could confide in and we had gone behind her back and slept together.

My mind swirled with tortuous questions, each one ached more than the last. How could I let it happen? Was it worth it, even for a night? What kind of person did this make me?

Would my daughter think I’m a creep—or a perv if she found out?

That one felt like a knife being twisted in my chest. Emily thought the world of me, I’d been her hero for as long as I could remember. Her dead beat mother walked out on me, but not only did she leave me behind, she abandoned our daughter too.

The thrill. The danger. The forbidden sweetness. It had faded away and I realised I made a mistake, one I wish I could take back.

But, the lingering feeling that it felt right in the moment—like your body was made to be underneath mine—was still there.

When I closed my eyes I could still feel your soft skin beneath my fingertips. I could still hear your moans and whimpers in my ear like a prayer. I could still feel your delicate, plump lips against my own.

It only added to my self loathing and deprecation.

I tried by best to push my thought to the back of my mind when I realised I couldn’t keep staring at my reflection forever.

I had to face you. Had to face what I had done.

I took a deep breath, fixing my shirt in the mirror before making my way towards the stairs. I could hear your laughter and Emily’s sweet voice filling the kitchen before I’d even gotten close to the doorway.

To my ears, it sounded like you were just… getting on with it. I couldn’t understand how you were laughing and joking around with my daughter, as if you weren’t calling me daddy in your filthy, erotic tone the night before.

I walked in, avoiding your gaze as if looking at you would turn me to stone. I could almost feel your eyes burning into me without even taking a glance. I couldn’t look you in the eyes after what we had done the night before. I began boiling the kettle without a word.

“Dad, you’re quiet this morning.” Emily said, her voice as soft as ever.

“Hm?” I hummed, feigning nonchalance while making my coffee. “M’just tired.”

“Just tired huh?” I could almost hear the frown. “You’ve always been a chirpy morning person.”

I sat myself down at the table opposite Emily, still not even stealing a glance in your direction.

“I can’t be a ray of sunshine every morning, Em. Cut your old man some slack.”

“I had music playing pretty loud last night when you were at Chloe’s house. Might’ve kept him up.” You spoke up, pushing beans around your plate of full English breakfast.

I almost laughed. Music? No. Your cries of pleasure kept me up.

Emily chuckled, shaking her head as her eyes flicked between us. “You’ve never been able to sleep through noise, dad. Remember when I used to turn my tv on past bedtime? You’d be knocking on my door within two minutes.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the swirling liquid in my cup instead of you. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught you hiding a smile behind your mug, and it felt like a punch to the gut. You could sit there, all innocent, pretending nothing happened, while I was burning alive inside my own skin.

Emily leaned her chin into her palm, elbow propped on the table, looking between us again, far too perceptive for my liking.

“You two are acting weird this morning. Did I miss something? She asked.

My stomach dropped. I swear the mug almost slipped from my grip.

I cleared my throat. “I’m just annoyed at y/n for keeping me up last night, that’s all.”

I heard you lightly scoff under your breath, to my daughter, it most likely seemed like you didn’t see the issue with your ‘loud music’ last night.

I knew better. You understood the implication in my words.

Your next words caused my jaw to tighten. “I had a lot of fun last night, a little music never hurt anybody.”

“I’m glad you had fun, I didn’t,” I said, voice dropping with sarcasm, finally letting my gaze fall on you. “I should’ve been asleep instead of dealing with that bullshit.”

I lied. I did have fun. I fucking loved it.

I’d have done it all over again in a heartbeat. I’d have kept you in my bed forever if I could. But I couldn’t.

That was the problem. I had to shut it down.

Emily looked baffled by this exchange, clearly wondering why a situation as trivial as ‘loud music’ had caused her dad and best friend to be so riled up.

“Well, you didn’t seem to have a problem with the music last night,” Your voice dropped lower. Accusing. “I don’t recall you telling me to stop it.”

“I felt sorry for you, y/n, so I let you carry on.” I retorted. Voice low. Harsh.

I watched your face fall as you took in my grating words. Your expression shifted from defiant to one f shock. Sadness. But you quickly brushed it off, the idea that I only fucked you because I felt sorry for you clearly cut you deep.

I knew I was being cruel, but I needed to make you hate me. Even if I hated myself for hurting you. Making you loathe me was probably the only way I could truly put a stop to this before it went even further.

And I was prepared to do anything to make that happen.

The glint in your eyes the first time I allowed my eyes to fall on you, told me everything I needed to know without the words falling from your pretty pink lips.

Your eyes lit up the moment ours locked.

When we had sex it wasn’t just physical to you. Which was even fucking worse. You couldn’t like me. You couldn’t.

But, I’d be lying if I said it was just physical for me.

Emily likely thought that I wanted to allow you some fun—some freedom since your mother was very harsh on you at your place, so I let you play loud music.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Woah, woah,” Emily interjected, rolling her eyes and waving her hand, gesturing us to stop. “Dad, I’m sure y/n didn’t mean to keep you up all night and you should know better than to argue like a kid.”

A frown formed on my face, it wasn’t great being called out by my 20 year old daughter. Especially when she was right.

She turned her attention to you, offering a smile. “And, y/n, don’t let grumpy guts get to you. He clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“You’re right, Em,” you replied, schooling your expression, faking a smile. “I’ll try not to keep him up again.”

Emily simply smiled and nodded, turning her attention to her phone, mindlessly scrolling.

She thought music. I thought sex.

The way you kept referring to last night—with your teasing. Implicating word, sent rage burning through my veins.

You knew us having sex shouldn’t have happened. You knew it was a mistake. Yet, you couldn’t stop pushing—taunting me, could you?

I downed the last sip of my coffee, slamming it down on the table harder than intended. Causing both you and Emily to turn your heads towards me with a scowl on your faces.

“Bloody hell,” Emily muttered, giving me the dirtiest look I’d ever seen. “Dad, seriously? You need to chill.”

I kept my mouth shut. If I didn’t, words that really didn’t need to be said would’ve tumbled out.

“Y/n, I’m sorry about him.” Emily told you, her expression one of slight embarrassment. “He can be a dick sometimes.”

“No worries, Em. It’s all good.” You replied, voice soft. Sweet.

Fake.

It wasn’t ’all good.’ Your expression betrayed your words. I was suprised Emily hadn’t noticed.

“You two try not to bite each other’s heads off, yeah?” She said, standing up from her chair, eyes darting between us. “I’m off to work.”

Work. Fuck. I’d forgotten Emily had work today. How incredibly convenient for me that you’d recently quit your job because your boss was a dick.

I’d have to be alone with you today.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll be fine,” I waved my hand dismissively. “Have a nice day, love.”

“See you later, Em.” You added, passing Emily her phone so she wouldn’t forget it.

“Shit, almost forgot that, thank you.” She took her phone from you, giving you a grateful smile. “See you guys later.”

And with that, she walked out of the kitchen and a few moments later I heard the front door close with a soft click.

Without a word—not even a glance, I stopped up and stormed out of the kitchen. Leaving you alone in the kitchen.

Being in your presence was unbearable. The anger I felt toward myself—and toward you—consumed me like a wildfire I couldn’t put out. Every time I looked at you, I saw temptation. Every time I heard your voice, I remembered how it sounded gasping my name in the dark.

And I hated it. I hated you for pushing, for teasing, for reminding me. But I hated myself more—for letting it happen.

—

Y/n’s POV

I watched Harry disappear from the kitchen as if staying in the same room as me would end in the walls closing in on him. His words “I felt sorry for you, y/n, so I let you carry on” replayed in my mind like a movie created specifically to torture me.

Because of Emily’s presence, I had to put on a facade and pretend I was unaffected by his words—as if I didn’t know the underlying, cruel meaning behind them that she was blissfully unaware of.

He slept with me because he felt sorry for me.

Was it because I’ve been having family issues at the moment, he pitied me? Or he felt sorry for me having a crush on my best friends dad?

I wanted to scream. To ask him how he could strip me bare one night, then shred me with pity the next day. Instead, I nodded along to Emily’s words, pretending my throat wasn’t closing up.

I knew it was wrong—knew us having sex was off limits and we crossed a line that was never mean to be crossed. I knew I’d betrayed Emily by sleeping with her father.

Hell, if she’d slept with mine I would’ve been fucking mortified. But, none of those things warranted the way Harry was treating me—none of them warranted me feeling used.

Worthless.

My gaze flickered toward the hallway he’d disappeared down. I hated myself for hoping he’d come back—for some sign that he didn’t mean it. That maybe he’d take it back.

But the silence told me everything.

My hands that were resting on the dining table balled into fists, gripping the table cloth through my fingers like it’d personally betrayed me.

I felt my breathing get sharper, my chest rising and falling at an agonising pace. Anger surged through me, hot and suffocating, demanding to be unleashed.

My mind went hazy, every nerve ending on fire in the worst possible way—nothing like the euphoric ecstasy that made them come alive the night before.

Without another thought, I’d rose to my feet and grabbed a vase that was home to beautiful pink and purple tulips.

A deep growl escaped the back of my throat as I launched the vase toward the wall and it smashed with a deafening sound that filled the bleak silence of the kitchen—it shattered into pieces as if it could compete with how broken I felt.

The pieces of glass and tulips scattered across the hard wood floor, I’d barely let my gaze fall on the mess I’d made for a few seconds before I heard footsteps.

Loud. Dangerous. Urgent.

Harry rushed into the kitchen with an expression of animalistic rage I’d never seen on him before. I wasn’t unfamiliar with it though, I’d seen it on my mother when we’d had big fights.

His jaw tightened, eyes blazing—like he’s about to explode but just about holding on by a thread.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He questioned, taking a step towards me, his voice sharp. Cold.

“Im breaking, Harry!” I snapped, holding back the tears that threatened to spill. “Just like you clesrly wanted!”

“Spare me the dramatics,” he scoffed, looking at me with such disgust that a shiver went down my spine. “You’re throwing a tantrum. How fucking pathetic? You’re really showing your age.”

I stepped towards him, jaw tightening so hard I swear my teeth could’ve snapped. “Oh, so now you’re patronising me because I’m twenty? You didn’t seem to fucking care about my age last night.”

He snapped. His hand found my throat, roughly pushing me back against the same counter he’d eaten my pussy on like a starving man last night.

His frame crowded around me, I couldn’t escape even if I tried. He leaned down, face to face with me, a wild look of fury washed over his features.

“Last night was a fuck, nothing more,” he sneered, lips curling into a devilish smirk. “You think spreading your legs for me makes you special? I’ve had better.”

I was frozen in place. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Those words made my heart drop, finally an unshed tear rolled down my cheek without my permission. How could he be so cruel? So cold?

He seemed like a completely different person to the man who gently cleaned me up after we had sex last night. As if over night, something switched inside of him.

I wish I knew what was going through his head. Every thought. Every hesitation. Every unspoken word.

If you’d told me the night before that the same man who’d made me feel the best I’d ever felt in my entire life—made me feel confident. Beautiful. Would reduce me to tears, I’d have never would’ve believed you.

I couldn’t hold my emotions in any longer. The hurt. The anger. The guilt. The betrayal. Everything I felt came flooding out in the form of tears.

I lost all composure, I smacked my hands against his chest, completely breaking down in front of him as I screamed:

“Then why did you do it? Why would you make me feel spe—“

Then the words died in my throat, I felt his large hand cup my cheek and his thumb grazed over my skin, wiping a tear away. I stiffened. Froze.

My eyes widened, lips parting in shock. Confusion. “H-harry, what are you doing?” I asked, shakily as I stared up at him through my tear soaked lashes.

He didn’t respond right away, his free hand came to rest just above my breast before he trailed his finger tips down my body, stopping just before the waistband of my pyjamas shorts.

His touch was gentle. Tender. Instantly I felt like I was back in the presence of the man who made me feel like the only girl in the world last night—instead of the callous man who spat venomous words at me a moment ago.

My sobs had reduced to small sniffles, almost completely faded away. It was insane—the power he had over me. Just one touch and I was melting into him like I’d never sworn to resist.

I was powerless against him. My soul ached for him.

He made me feel worthless, ashamed, disgusting and belittled with his words, and yet I couldn’t push his hand away from my skin.

His fingers danced along my lower stomach as he spoke. “Can I?” He asked for permission, tone strangely softer.

Against my better judgment, I found myself nodding, my breathing heavily. “Y-yes… please.”

I wanted—no, I needed him. It was almost pathetic.

His large, ringed hand slipped beneath my shorts and burrowed its way beneath my panties, causing me to suck in a sharp breath.

He slid his fingers between my soaked folds, he then dragged his index finger in an agonisingly slow strip until he found my clit, earning a soft whimper from me.

His index and ring finger circled my clit in slow, deliberate, torturous motions. My eyes squeezed shut, and my leg twitched. He’d surrounded me, I was boxed in against the counter and his cologne filled my senses.

He quickly retracted his fingers from my dripping, aching cunt causing a whine of protest to escape my lips at the loss of contact.

I opened my eyes, mouth curling into a frown, and I saw a cocky, smug smirk plastered on his face.

“W-why did y—“

He cut me off. “See how easy you give yourself away?” His words were cold. Sharp. “You’re dripping for me and I don’t even want you. Pathetic. That’s the last time I’ll ever touch you.”

I was stunned into silence, his words cut through me as if he plunged a knife into my chest, twisting it again, and again.

He lifted his hand to his mouth, licking his fingers that were coated with my juices until they were clean.

Then he leaned forward, breath hot against my face, the harshness of his tone matched his words. “…and the worst part? You’ll think about me every time you touch yourself. And no man after me will ever make you feel the things I did—the things you’re never gonna feel again.”

Before I could get a word in, he’d turned on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen as if he hadn’t just broken me with his words.

But I swore I saw a flicker of guilt—a flicker of regret before he disappeared. No. I must’ve been seeing what I wanted to see.

His departure left me confused. Hurting. Wondering what I did that made him want to treat me this way.

—

Whewww that was alot. If you enjoyed please like and reblog, thankyou so much for reading 🩷

[sundew199]

One more time

a/n: my first little series for Zoro! I've been sitting on this idea for a while, heheh. tags will update with each part :)

tags: roronoa zoro x f!reader, modern au, previously established relationship, co-parenting, single dad!Zoro, single mom!reader, slight tension, repressed/denial of feelings.

synopsis: you and zoro have been split for three years, co-parenting your daughter together and making things work. But neither of you can deny the feelings ever faded for each other and don't know if giving it another shot is worth it. So what happens when it all comes to a head and neither of you can dance around the obvious you both seem so blind too?

next part ->

Faint buzzing from your nightstand alerted you from the deep sleep, flipping over, barely glancing at the time and not realizing you missed the first three alarms that had already gone off. Blearily blinking, staring down at your phone, the numbers finally became clear and not quickly enough, because you were already running late.

"Shit."

Snagging a robe from the rack hooked over the top of your bedroom door, pulling it on as you ran down the hallway of your apartment, stopping at a closed bedroom door.

"Kiyomi." Softly calling out to your daughter as you crept through the door slowly. "Kiyomi are you up?"

Sun light beamed through the windows of the room, casting a gentle glow on the fairy themed bedroom.

"Hi Mama!"

The little girl was suddenly in front of you, hair completely awry pointing in all different directions. Her bright eyes gazed up at you, already knowing what today was.

Thank God she was awake, too much like her father when it came to mornings, taking absolutely forever.

"Hi baby, you're already up?" Bending down to move her loose strands of hair away, pecking her forehead with a sweet motherly kiss.

"Uh huh, we get to go see daddy today." Happily twirling away, giggling so angelically you all but smiled.

"Mhm, did you pick out some clothes to pack in your bag?" Grabbing the kid sized duffle bag set on top of her dresser, the essential clothes already packed, leaving the rest up to your daughter.

"Yea, I put them on my tea set over there." Plopping back down on her bed, pointing to the small table that was given to her as a gift for her most recent birthday.

Nodding, wrapping your robe tighter around you to ensure decency, you took the surprisingly still neatly folded clothes from the tea table and stuffed them into the duffle bag. Kiyomi sat on her bed with a stuffed dragon, dancing it on her knees and talking to it like it were to respond. As you took a moment to grab whatever else she might need your phone vibrated from your robe pocket, possibly knowing what it might be about before checking.

A reminder that the train you took to get to Kiyomi's dad, was departing in forty five minutes, sending a panicked rush of adrenaline throughout. How had you slept through almost all your alarms? You were normally so on top of stuff, it was infuriating that you weren't this time.

Kiyomi quickly took notice of your abrupt franticness to get everything together, repeating the questions of "Are you okay?" several times as you dressed her until finally giving her a quick and reassuring response. Luckily your daughter never gave you grief about getting ready in the mornings, giving you barely enough time to throw something on and to head out the door.

Like every morning, the city bustled with life, crowding the sidewalks with people going to work or people heading across the city like you were. God, what made him want to live far knowing he had his daughter every other week? Whatever, there was no point in getting yourself worked up over something you had no power to change.

Below, the subway station, Kiyomi happily held your hand as she rocked back and forth on her feet, waiting with you for the train to arrive. An announcement over the inner com system throughout the subway announced the arrival of your train in the sext couple of minutes, tightening your hold on Kiyomi's hand so you wouldn't loose her while getting on.

Sooner than expected, the train arrived, everyone who needed to get off filtered out first, dragging Kiyomi through a small break in the exiting people to get on first so you could find a seat. You didn't have enough time to do her hair at the apartment and hoped you'd get to while on the train, and thankfully you snagged a seat, stuffing your daughter's bag underneath and pulling her onto your lap. An older woman sat beside you, Kiyomi waving to her politely as your finger combed through her thick hair. The two of them talked as you divided sections of her hair for two little braids, hearing her mention that she was going to see her dad and the older woman inquiring what the two of them would do while she was over there. It was sweet, but it quickly turned to bitterness realizing that you and Kiyomi's dad hadn't been together for almost three years and now your daughter was used to having to divide her time amongst her parents instead of being with both of you at the same time. It truly was for the better though, both of you knew that, but sometimes you caught yourself wondering if you'd tried a little harder to make it work.

"That's lovely dear, and what does your daddy do?"

"He teaches people how to kick and punch!"

The woman quickly looked at you wary, wondering what on earth your daughter could be talking about. Softly chuckling, explaining to her that Kiyomi's dad owns a martial arts studio and teaches classes. The sweet older woman softened once more, indulging your daughter more about how 'cool' her dad's job was.

Your stop was announced when the train came to a halt, letting Kiyomi say goodbye to the older woman as you exited, slinging her duffle bag over your shoulder. As much as it irritated you that he lived halfway across the city, at least it was a short walk from the subway station to his complex. Kiyomi bubbled with excitement the closer you got, skipping in her steps, rambling on about all she was going to do over the week while she was here.

The woman at the front desk, welcomed you, sneaking a lollipop to Kiymoi as you headed towards the elevators.

"Daddy said last time I was over that when I came over again he was going to teach me some moves."

"Why? So you can use them against me and get out of cleaning your room?" Playfully pressing, seeing your daughter flood red and slowly shaking her head. You promised her you were just being silly, watching her break out into a relieved smile after she thought she upset you.

Exiting the elevator, walking down the right and past a handful of doors, you let Kiyomi knock, stepping back so that he would see her first instead of you.

Zoro didn't even check to see who it might be, swinging the door open, groaning sleepily as he asked who it was. Kiyomi jumped up and squealed, pulling Zoro fully awake to bend down and sweep his daughter from the floor and into his arms, giving her the tightest bear hug right there in the door way.

"Hi princess, you're early today." Fiercely kissing Kiyomi's temple as he glanced in your direction, moving aside so you could come in for a second. You wouldn't deny that Zoro and Kiyomi's relationship was sickeningly sweet, he loved her unconditionally and spoiled the absolute hell out of her too.

Brushing past him, ignoring the fact he was shirtless and in loose fitting athletic shorts, you walked to the living room to set Kiyomi's bag on the couch. Zoro came in behind you, carefully tossing his daughter onto the couch, hearing her infectious giggle as she landed with a plop. His attention was focused on something in the kitchen, headed that way as your daughter said hello to the cat that freely roamed about the apartment. His back was turned when you approached, the expansive tattoo that took up the entirety of his back was all you could focus on. You knew he got it done recently but had no idea it was so intricate so many elements inked into his skin, flowing perfectly together. The tiger was what stood out to you most, swore the eyes pierced into your soul as you stood there and stared. When he started to turn, you cleared your throat, remembering why you came over here in the first place.

"I packed some warmer clothes just in case."

Crumbs from the toast he took a bite of flaked off the corner of his mouth as he finished chewing. "Why? I've got some here."

"Oh right. Sorry, I was in a rush this morning and remembered it might get chilly this week, just thought I'd tell you."

Zoro nodded, taking another bite of the toast, standing in his kitchen, waiting for you to continue or to say something else. You weren't sure why you were so awkward and flustered all of a sudden, doing this since Kiyomi was two, all part of the new normal since your split. Maybe it was the tattoo and him answering the door shirtless, usually more put together when you stop by to drop your daughter off, add onto the fact you hadn't been on a date in god knows how long at this point. But that shouldn't be the reason why you were abnormally flustered around him, though it wouldn't serve you any good to dwell on it either.

"I've got two classes this week, so Kiyomi will come with me to the studio." Saying as he dusted his hands of the crumbs and reached for the coffee cup beside him.

Not much of an issue, it's happened in the past and you weren't going to deny him taking her to work when it was his week. Plus she liked going up there with him, always talked about it when you came to pick her up before the start of the next week.

"Are you going to be teaching her some of your moves?" Air quoting playfully and seeing Zoro shake his head and laughing into his coffee mug.

"Maybe, did she tell you I was?"

"Mhm."

Zoro huffed through his nose in amusement, finishing his coffee and dumping the rest in the sink. You smiled warmly as he moved about the kitchen, grabbing some more things to eat so he could at least say he had breakfast. You weren't in any rush to get out of here, work giving you a day off and Zoro never minded how long you stayed when dropping off Kiyomi.

Since the mutual split, the two of you slowly and awkwardly built a friendship. It was weird at first, a drastically different dynamic and hard to navigate when there were obvious feelings still between you and him. And it begged the question at first why you even agreed to split in the first place. But deep down you knew it was for the better, having a kid together when you were both trying to figure out your lives and not even being together for very long before finding out you were pregnant. It was an overall recipe that would inevitably result in the two of you parting ways. There were some other factors, like Zoro not communicating how he felt half the time, resulting in arguments over stupid things or how you felt like you needed to do everything on your own and not ask for help. The relationship wasn't all bad, but it reached a point where you both knew it'd be better for Kiyomi to co-parent and remain friends.

"Well, I've gotta run some errands so I'll get out of your hair." Breaking the silence and stepping back from the small L-shaped kitchen island, Zoro perking up and scrunching his face.

"Never left so quickly, do errands involve something you don't want me to know about?" Poking at you humorously, knowing you'd get annoyed.

Both of you have dated in the past, though very briefly. In the beginning, when laying the ground rules and expectations for one another post-breakup, you both agreed that Kiyomi wouldn't be introduce to anyone either of you were dating until after a couple of months and only if it was serious. Neither of you wanted your daughter getting attached to someone and then never see them again because it didn't work out, she was too young to question why mommy or daddy's girlfriends or boyfriends weren't coming around anymore, she was only five and didn't need that burden on her.

"No," Scoffing and rolling your eyes, feeling the cat come and walk between your legs, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. "Trying to get it done early so I can enjoy my day off."

Zoro gave a pondering hum, closing the fridge and walking over to you, hands cross over his chest, biceps bulging. Why were you noticing all of this right now, what was wrong with you?

"Hm alright, let me know if you need anything."

His usual offer was always endearing, like a little reminder that he'd always be there if you needed him and Zoro had no real obligation to offer that to begin with, but always did.

"I will." Coming up behind Kiyomi on the couch occupied with her coloring book, bending down to kiss the crown of her head and tell her goodbye and to have fun this week.

Walking with him to the door, you briefly gave him a hug and jokingly told him to have fun too, memorizing the warm laugh he gave into your ear, annoyed with how a shiver ran up your spine at the sound. It'd been three years and you swore up and down that he had no effect over you, always ignoring and pushing it down because you knew the chances of working out a second time were low. Deep down you hoped he'd want to try again, but Zoro never once gave any indication, so you respected it, for the sake of your daughter.

~

Errands took up most of your day and you really didn't even mean for it to happen. Grocery shopping was surprisingly quick, deciding to shop for this week and the next just to save yourself some time for when Kiymoi would eventually be back with you. It was the personal errands that took up your day, an urge to clothes shop coming over you resulted in two hours of aimlessly wondering around the mall with a couple bags in hand.

Late afternoon had come when you finally walked through the door, tossing everything to the couch and flopping there. A dull numbing quiet surrounded you flopped on that couch, phantom calls of 'mommy!' or Kiyomi's exciting squeals about whatever it was replacing the silence in your head. No matter how long you'd been taking Kiyomi over to Zoro's for the week, the first quiet day was always the hardest. She was your sunshine, the brightest part of your day and everything turned gloomy when she was over at her dad's.

Zoro must've felt the same way, given how excited he was to see her and how masked his gloominess was when he dropped her back off.

This was for the best.

Was the constant reminder ringing in your head every time you fell into this slump. Lately you'd been questioning if it was actually for the best and it all felt insanely selfish every time you tried to reason against yourself and the stubbornness. Kiyomi was happy and healthy, having a great relationship with both her parents, always calling the back and forth between your place and Zoro's an adventure. Surely other single moms who co-parented felt this way, all the gloominess and conflict but you didn't have anyone else you knew who was in a similar situation as you. Making other mom friends was hard enough as it is, especially single mom friends. Hearing about their constant distaste for their child's father made it hard to keep in touch with them, and it wasn't that you didn't agree with them, but you couldn't relate and you wanted to relate to them to gain some sort of reassurance.

Mulling over the same thing was pointless, nothing would change in the selfish way that you wanted, so you needed to accept and be content with how things were with your family.

Finally pulling yourself from the couch, taking the bags with you to the bedroom, you were met with the train wreck that was you trying to get ready this morning. Setting the bags on the bed, you picked up everything thrown across the room, putting it back where it belonged. Took longer than you expected, moving some things around and getting lost in reorganizing your closet to make room for the things you bought today.

Ideally doing this on your day off could've waited until the weekend, but you had time now. A few storage pins were pulled out so you could extent the shoe rack you bought so long ago, easily fitting the much needed pair of shoes on the rack next to the others. Spare hangers were found to use on the various pieces of new clothing. Ultimately you were done, but you hadn't looked through those storage bins and wondered if anything could be tossed out or donated. You knew some of Kiyomi's clothes that didn't fit anymore were in one of these, holding onto them because you weren't sure if you could ever get rid of them.

Newborn clothes and clothes from when she was still under a year old were folded neatly and stacked to the brim. All the memories flooded back to you with every piece you picked up and admired. Most of these were sentimental, like the onesie she wore when she said her first word, or the outfit she had on when she walked for the first time, stuff like that. Even the outfit you brought her home from the hospital was in here, the exact one Zoro chose and suddenly your chest was tight and you couldn't look at it anymore.

That turned out to be the case with the rest of the baby clothes, memories of you and Zoro navigating through parenthood with a baby and somehow surviving were rushing through your head. You wanted to cry, go back in time to when you were blissfully happy and unaware of the strain on your relationship, go back and do things differently. But that wasn't an option.

Putting all of Kiyomi's clothes back, snapping the lid back on the container and sliding it back into the deepest corner of your closet, you shifted your focus to the second one. All of your clothes that didn't fit anymore were stuffed in here and not wanting to relive anymore old memories, you closed the lid and tucked it away with the other one.

Leaving your closet after sitting on the floor and staring at the ceiling as you thought of nothing, you headed back to the living and kitchen area to pick up some more. Kiyomi was pretty good at putting her toys away and preventing anyone from tripping over them, you simply put a few things back in place.

Now you really didn't have anything left to do, already close to dinner and no desire to dirty the kitchen making a meal just for yourself. Maybe a solo outing to a near-by diner would get your mind off of things, maybe you'd meet someone.

Unrealistic part of it aside, you needed to get out of the apartment for your own good and not dwell on missing your daughter or a relationship that wouldn't happen again.

Grabbing a jacket and all your personal belongings, you marched down the stairs, skipping the elevator just so you could get out faster. An almost frigid breeze whipped across your face, shivering almost violently as you looked down the street for a suitable option for dinner. Most of the places you frequented with Kiyomi knew you two by name and always welcomed you both when coming by. The owners always feigned disappointment when they asked where Kiyomi was and you'd say with her dad, insisting she needed to be with you always when you came by as a lighthearted joke.

The only option that remotely sounded appealing for dinner was the old burger place a block away from your complex. Beginning to head that way, weaving in and out of people along the way, politely excusing yourself just so you didn't come off as an asshole. Arriving, surprised it wasn't as busy as it normally was, the waitress smiled bright seeing you, immediately directing you to a seat on the hightop bar, asking if you wanted a drink.

And for once you took her up on the offer, getting whatever their special mixed drink was to save yourself from having to make a decision. The bartender as expected inquired where your daughter was, looking up from the menu with raised brows, seeing his amused smile, implying he knew where she was.

"How old is she now?" The middle aged man asked as he made your drink, waiting until you after you were finishing giving your food order to waitress from earlier.

"She's five." Turning back to him, sighing in the way only a mother sighs when talking about how old their child is. The man deeply chuckled, rimming the glass with lime juice and dusting salt on the side.

"Shit, she was just a toddler."

"Please Rob, I really don't want to be reminded, I already accidentally went down memory lane earlier." Almost forcing a laugh, questioning why you would bring that up again after how glum you got because of it. His hand came up defensively, apologizing with another chuckle and handing you your drink for the evening. He asked how your job was going and eventually asked how Zoro was doing, since he used to live in this part of the city with you and frequent this restaurant as well.

A messy looking burger arrived in the midst of your pleasant conversation with the bartender, thanking the waitress and passing her your card so you could pay now but keep your tab open for drinks just in case. It's not like you had a lot going on, might as well keep yourself company.

~

Zoro wishes he had inherited some ability for cooking, especially when Kiyomi was staying with him. He read some books, watched some videos but it always resulted in the dish turning into nothing even remotely close to what he was making or burnt to hell.

Would he be a bad dad for ordering takeout all this week? He doesn't think you'd be very happy to know your daughter was fed absolute junk when you try you best to cook as often as you could, but for some reason he couldn't even boil pasta correctly.

He swore it was because his mind was constantly thinking back to when you came to drop Kiyomi off. It wasn't unusual for him to dwell on thoughts about you when he saw you, though this time was compelling and inhibiting his ability to cook a decent meal for his daughter. He ran through the same thought process of trying to find ways to get you to stay longer or to drop by during his week but he never found the courage to do so. Or a good enough reason or excuse.

He knows this is what you and him agreed on, but shit it was hard sometimes, still hopelessly in love with you and wishing he'd done more to fix the strain and not settle for splitting. But he also respected you and never wanted to go against your wishes or try to pressure you into giving you and him a go again.

Completely unsatisfied with the burnt chicken nuggets, Zoro tossed them in the trash, staring from across the kitchen at Kiyomi curled up on the couch watching an episode of her favorite TV show.

Feeling like an utter failure of a dad recently, this was the cherry on top and he had no one to vent to about it. You of course didn't want to hear his transgressions about still navigating through fatherhood with uncertainty, you took motherhood on like it was nothing, you were a natural. Zoro always thought the two of you were better as a team with Kiyomi, but towards the end of the relationship when you voiced your thoughts about him undermining you and trying to do everything for you, he stepped back. Not completely of course, it's not like he stopped being a father, but he let you handle things on your own, but thinking back, that wasn't the smartest thing to do. Fuck, after three years he's still sitting here (or standing in this case) wondering what he could've done differently.

"Daddy? What's for dinner?" Kiyomi asked from the couch, sitting up, strands from your two perfect braids coming loose.

Uh, shit, he just threw dinner away and felt completely stumped on what else he had to make for her.

"What do you want?"

The brightness in her smile could be seen from here he stood, watching her climb down from the couch and run her way over to him, giggling as he picked her up and set her on the kitchen island. Gleefully the little girl swung her feet and thought about what she would want for dinner, widening the small smile on Zoro's face.

"Maybe noodles?"

"What kind of noodles?"

"Those noodles with the vegetables that come with the chicken."'

"Chinese takeout?"

Her immediate bobbing of her head sealed the answer for dinner, grabbing his phone from just behind her and searching up the nearest place. Zoro stood there leaning against the edge of the counter and showing Kiyomi the menu item pictures and waiting for her to choose which one. She settled on lo mein noodles with chicken, sweetly asking for one of the cookies with the paper inside to come with the food as well, making Zoro laugh.

Once he figured out what he wanted, the order was placed, Zoro migrated back over to the couch where Cookie was curled up in the exact spot Kiyomi had been sitting in early. The black cat came to join Zoro shortly after he moved in here, bringing him home from the shelter and letting Kiyomi name him. Those two were best buds, Cookie very possessive of the little girl oddly enough, but you both found it kinda sweet.

"Can we stay up late tonight?" Kiyomi asked, scooting in beside Cookie who barely flinched, merely adjust where he lay to accommodate his human companion.

"No, daddy's got work in the morning and you're coming with me, remember?"

"Yea, but we always stay up late."

"No we do not?" Laughing in disbelief at his daughter's confession, looking at her quizzically, wondering where on earth she came up with that. Zoro could see the small bit of guilt in her eyes, the biggest indicator that she knew she was lying to try and get him to give in and god did it melt his heart.

"I know, but I don't like having a bedtime." Pouting and falling into his arm, letting out a sigh that reminded him so much of you. Kiyomi in general was like looking and being around you, truly your mini-me.

"I know baby, but bedtimes are good for you." Comforting her, playing with one of the braids and giving her a small squeeze.

"You sound like mommy."

Zoro dramatically whined and Kiyomi peaked up, giggling and climbing onto his lap, gently smacking her hands on his cheeks and bringing his face center to hers. Her inquisitive little eyes studied him, tracing over his features. She hummed to herself, leaning in closer to the eye that had a single clean scar over it.

"You need to get your eye fixed."

A loud unexpected laugh erupted from Zoro, leaving Kiyomi slightly confused but laughing along with him.

"I can't fix it."

"Why?"

"Because."

Kiyomi pouted, not liking the answer but not pushing further. Zoro could get his eye "fixed" but he wasn't made of money and quite frankly didn't have a desire too either. An accident involving a sword at his dojo as a teen against an opponent resulted in the scar, as well as the vision impairment. The doctors thought they could save the eye but ended up having to remove it, resulting in his permanently closed and scarred eye. When Kiyomi was younger and learning to speak, her favorite thing to do was point at his scar and ask 'What happen?', slowly graduating from that to asking where his eye was or for him to tell the story, but this was the first time she's ever suggested getting his eye "fixed".

Soft knocks and a ringing door bell could only mean one thing, setting Kiyomi down and going to answer the door. A teenager, completely unamused about delivery this order, barely exchanged a word handing him over the food and taking the cash. Someone had beat him to the kitchen, climbing up the barstool and seating herself like a waiting customer at a diner as Zoro grabbed a plate. Little moments like these warmed his heart and made himself feel better about trying his best, even when he didn't feel like it was his best.

~

One drink turned into two and then three, eventually cutting yourself off at the sound of your own constant giggling. If you didn't have work in the morning maybe you would've kept drinking but then again you still had to get home and didn't want to stumble all down the sidewalk to get there.

A couple other patrons joined you at the bar, ordering food or drinks, sometimes both but not lingering like how you were. One person did though and you found yourself in a fit of laughter as he told the story of how his roommate walked in on him in college with his crush.

The man was nice, funny as well and you couldn't remember the last time you'd freely or carelessly laughed with a stranger like this. In a way, you felt renewed, a bit more alive and there wasn't any real explanation for it other than the amount of alcohol you had.

"Never let me live that moment down."

"I can't imagine he would, I mean who leaves the door unlocked when finally getting alone with their crush."

He shrugged, took a sip of his drink and sputtered out another laugh.

"Hey I was eager and not thinking straight."

Humming into the glass of water as an answer to his explanation, you pondered why you felt so carefree with this stranger of a man. Inebriation damped your cognitive thinking, unable to come up with an explanation but the familiar feeling remained. It began to dawn on you and you just about placed your finger on it before the man interrupted you with a question.

"Sorry, I zoned out, what did you say?" Being honest and shying away in mild embarrassment. The man waved you off, turning in the barstool to face you more.

"I said I want to get to know you more."

Oh.

Suddenly the urge to clam up came over you, which wasn't unusual when it came to the few dates you went on. It's like you couldn't detach yourself from the idea that a second chance with Zoro would present itself and you wouldn't have the opportunity to act on it because you were in a relationship. There was no reason to do this to yourself, it was very clear between both of you that this is how it would be and knew that at some point you'd end up with other people, even if that part was unspoken. But you couldn't help but hold out some hope, why you never went on more than just a second date with a person. And you knew that you had to break this habit, you deserved to be happy whether it was with Zoro or not.

"Oh yea sure, uh did you want my number?" Patting over your body for your phone so you could exchange contact with the man, finding it on the bar top next to your water.

"Yea, I'll give you mine too." Pulling out his phone as well.

Unlocking your own, finding the contacts section, you clicked the plus sign in the top corner, waiting for him to do the same. The man insisted you give him your number first, attempting to come off as a 'gentleman' and you bought the bait, repeating the numbers and giving him your name as well.

Waiting until he finished adding you as a contact, you smiled, signaling for him to repeat his number to you. He spoke slow, knowing you were tipsy and you thought that was funny in a way, typing the numbers in, only to get a text from Zoro right then.

'Kiyomi wanted to say goodnight and I love you'

Was what it read at the top of your phone with a video attachment and the tears were flooding your eyes faster than you could breathe.

You felt guilty and there was no reason for you to either. It wasn't Zoro's fault for sending you that text, he had no idea and this wasn't unusual either, Kiyomi always wanting to say goodnight and you adored your daughter for that. But here you were exchanging numbers with a guy you just met and feeling like this was completely wrong when it wasn't.

"Did you get it all?"

His question snapped you back to reality, noticing only half of his number typed out into the contact card and the next thing you should've said was politely asking him to repeat it. But you didn't

"Yea, got it." Forcing a smile and forcing the tears to go away. He didn't suspect anything, smiling excitedly and slouching in the bar stool.

"I text you or you text me after we're done here?" Questioning in a sort of seductive way, turning on his charm and you all of a sudden didn't find it as charming anymore.

"I'll text you." Throwing him a wink and sliding off the barstool, deciding you needed to leave now or you'd be an embarrassing mess and you could tell he was slightly thrown off, raising a brow. "I've got work in the morning, if I don't text you tonight, I'll text you in the morning."

Reassurance flooded his face at your words and a different guilt settled inside you because you didn't have any plans on actually texting him. The right thing to do would be to tell him but that would spiral into wanting to know why you offered your number and you weren't in the right mind to deal with that. So you just told him what he probably wanted to hear, walking away, turning to wave as you exited the burger place, clutching your phone tightly in your hand.

Deep down you wished you had the confidence to tell Zoro that you'd be open to trying again, do better than the first time and not make the same mistakes. But if it were to fail for a second time, the aftermath of it all would be worse than the first time. Kiyomi was older and you'd never forgive yourself if you let your daughter believe that her mom and dad were together for good just to break everyone up again. She was older now and it would affect her more than it did when she was two. Kiyomi needed some kind of stability and you weren't going to let the falling out of you and Zoro be a burden on her and you knew Zoro wouldn't want that either. But you had to decide what you wanted, and that meant coming to terms with the feelings that never really left for Zoro and that was a challenge in itself and plagued with too many what ifs and disappointment and you weren't sure if you could deal with that all over again.

[scottishtea]

epilogue, all of me // clark kent x reader

Inspired by superman 2025

I You and Clark Kent work for the Daily Planet and are, at most, cordial with each other. What happens when the both of you become more interested in each other and explore something more? |

DISCLAIMER: PART 5 / 5

✰ warnings and comments: intense kissing, suggestive language, some fluff, continued-series, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, clark is sometimes gloomy, it-tech!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, both of them are very awkward at times.

✰ WC: 2.1k

✰ a/n: hey there! sorry for the late update, but thanks again for all the love on my previous posts. i am truly blown away by how much of you love this! this is the fifth and final part in my clark kent x reader slow burn office romance series. hope you enjoy!

feel free to leave criticism or comments! comment to make taglist!

DO NOT COPY, REPRODUCE, USE, OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOURS ON ANY PLATFORM, SUCH AS BUT NOT LIMITED TO, ANY AI GENERATOR, TUMBLR, AO3, WATTPAD ETC.

The bruises were fading, though your body still ached when you stretched too quickly or when you suddenly stood up too fast. It wasn’t awful, more of a dull throb than pain, but Clark noticed every tiny flinch like it was a flare in the sky.

If you rubbed at your shoulder, he was there in a second with a heating pad. If you shifted your weight too much, he was offering to fetch extra pillows. He’d already adjusted the couch cushions twice that morning, muttering about lumbar support, and you were pretty sure he was staring down the throw blanket like it might be plotting against you.

“Clark,” you said from where you lounged, cocooned in that same blanket. “If you hover any closer, you’re going to fuse yourself to me.”

That made him pause, standing in the middle of the room with a pillow clutched in his huge hands. He blinked at you, caught somewhere between shame and amusement, before his mouth tugged into a half-smile.

“I just don’t want you hurting more than you already are.”

You patted the empty cushion beside you. “Then sit. Please. Before you wear a hole in the carpet with that pacing.”

He obeyed, reluctantly, and sank down beside you, though the way he hovered his arm near your shoulders instead of settling it around you screamed restraint. You nudged him until it finally landed where it belonged. He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath all day.

The truth was, you didn’t mind the soreness. If anything, it was a reminder of what had happened between you two. Of the walls that had fallen, the fire that had followed. But Clark, sweet, guilty Clark, was still wound tight. He looked at you like he’d broken something sacred.

“I hurt you,” he murmured again, quiet and raw.

“You loved me,” you corrected, same as you had every day since. Then, because silence stretched too long, you added, “And you know, for an alien god who can bend steel or whatever, you’re surprisingly gentle—most of the time.”

His heated eyes snagged yours, and momentarily you were reminded of the amount of erotic heat swimming in those depths a day ago. The way he tried and failed to keep his hands off of you. The many hours of him over and under your body—insatiable, your name like a sacred mantra, as he put you through the mattress, and shower wall…

And bathroom sink…

And vanity?

You’d lost count.

All you knew was that he’d have a bunch of furniture to replace this upcoming week, and some wall renovations.

“You’re not playing fair…” you heard him grumble, adjusting his pants as he moved closer.

“Huh?” You were so lost in your thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“How can I not want you when you look at me like that?” He breathed, almost sounding strangled.

“Who’s stopping you?” You all but moaned, and he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“I’ve done enough.” He sighed. “You should have never let me go that long. Gentle doesn’t come easy to me. Not when I’m always worried about… how fragile things are compared to me, and not when I’m all riled up like that.”

You tilted your head. “Fragile? Excuse me, I’m tougher than I look. You’re just—” You gestured vaguely at his whole body. “—a walking granite statue with puppy eyes.”

He laughed a breathy chuckle. “The point is, it's dangerous for me to get like that. You can’t let me—“

You closed the gap for a quick peck on his lips, before the tip of his nose, utterly enamoured. “CK?”

“Yeah?” He shuddered.

“I’d let you put me through this floor if you weren’t so insufferably noble.” You spoke into the small space between you.

His breath hitched, his eyes latching onto yours. Passion and heat passing between you too, thick and electric.

“You’re crazy,” he chuckled incredulously, yet it was warm.

For a moment, you just existed in the easy air that settled between you too. Not in a rush to do anything. Until Clark’s soft laugh shook the silence.

Your head tilted in curiosity.

“Granite statue, huh?”

You snorted a laugh. “With puppy eyes,” you repeated firmly. “Don’t forget the important part.”

The grin he gave you then could’ve powered the city.

———————————

Over the next few days, Clark’s guilt transformed into fussing. He carried groceries, cooked every meal, insisted on handling laundry, and even tried to stop you from lifting the kettle. He tucked blankets around you as if you might vanish without them.

“Clark,” you groaned one evening as he set down a bowl of soup in front of you. “I’m sore, not bedridden.”

“Humor me,” he said.

So you did. You let him hover, let him fuss, let him brush your hair back when he thought you were dozing. Because the truth was, as much as you teased him, there was something quietly fulfilling about being cared for like this. About him pouring himself into you for once, instead of everyone else.

It was in those moments that the stories started spilling out. Whether it was while he refilled your tea or tucked another blanket around your shoulders. Little things at first: how his mother used to be tickled about him and Mixie, how the Kansas air smelled before thunderstorms, how he was always terrified his strength would crush something he held too tightly.

Then bigger things: the first time he ever flew, how it felt like freedom and terror all tangled together. The impossible choice of becoming Superman. The nights he came home after saving hundreds but still carried the weight of the one he couldn’t.

And every time his voice cracked, you reached for his hand. Every time he looked away, afraid of disgust, you smiled instead.

“You’re not supposed to love me for this,” he whispered one night, eyes shadowed with memory.

“Too late,” you said simply, resting your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t answer, but the way his arm tightened around you spoke louder than words.

———————————

By the fourth day, Clark was restless.

He dropped things, spoons mostly, which was almost funny. He paced. He checked the time too often, though you were pretty sure time meant little to someone who could race the horizon.

Finally, he blurted, “I want to take you somewhere tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Somewhere, or somewhere?”

His lips twitched. “Somewhere. No cape. Just us.”

That was how you ended up blindfolded in a cab, his warm hand wrapped around yours as he gave the driver quiet directions. You tried to complain, but he only grinned every time you threatened to peek.

When he helped you out and guided you up a final set of steps, you nearly tripped, and he caught you effortlessly, of course. “Trust me,” he murmured.

“You know I don’t like surprises,” you teased, though your pulse was racing.

Finally, he slipped the blindfold off.

You gasped.

You were standing on a rooftop, the city sprawled out around you like a sea of stars. But it wasn’t just the view — it was the thousand candles flickering in a wide circle around a table set for two. White linen, gleaming glasses, the faint scent of roses on the air.

“CK,” you whispered, hand flying to your mouth. “This is…”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”

“Too much?” you laughed, spinning slowly to take it in. “Clark, this is… perfect. You’re setting the bar very high for yourself, you know.”

He smiled, nerves still tugging at the corners.

He pulled out your chair, poured the wine, tried hard to act like this was just dinner, but his hands trembled every time he reached for something.

Halfway through the meal, you leaned forward, chin in hand. “You’ve been fidgeting since the cab ride. Spill it.”

Clark froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “I—uh—”

You smirked. “Oh no. Is the great Clark Kent nervous? Should I be worried?”

Suddenly, he set his fork down. His movements reverent. When he gasped and looked up to the sky, your gaze followed, looking for what startled him.

It was only when you felt a quick breeze next to you that you turned to look down at him.

Look down.

Holy shit.

Clark Kent. Superman—your Clark, down on one knee, holding a velvet box like it was the most fragile thing he’d ever touched. Gazing up at you with those larger-than-life ocean eyes, nervous but certain.

Your breath caught.

The world tilted.

“I’ve spent so much of my life hiding,” he said, voice low, almost shaking. “Hiding from the world. From the truth. From myself. And then you came along, and you saw me. Really saw me. Not the cape. Not the disguise. Just… me.”

Your eyes stung, tears threatening.

“I don’t want to hide anymore. I want every part of my life to be with you. The good, the terrifying, the impossible. I want forever.” He opened the box. The whimsical ring inside glittered in the candlelight, but your eyes never left his. “Marry me, p-please.”

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak. You could only laugh through the tears, hand pressed to your mouth.

Finally, you choked out, “God, CK. Yes. Of course yes.”

The relief that swept over him was breathtaking. He slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, then pulled you into his arms, lifting you clean off the ground, twirling your bodied in the air, as you laughed into his shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, like a vow.

You leaned back just enough to grin at him, eyes still wet. “I love you too, granite statue.”

His laugh rumbled against your chest, and then he kissed you, slow and soft, the city lights burning all around.

And for once, Superman didn’t feel like he was carrying the world. He felt like the world was carrying him — right here, in your arms.

[opheliabbarnes]

licks lips... wrote this for @kiatjuddae hehehehe

the market stalls overflowed with mangoes, dried fish, and woven baskets pressed in on all sides.

you clutched bucky’s bicep, weaving through the throng, feeling dwarfed by his presence. to be fair he was also a wall of muscle in a long sleeved henley, sweat plastered on his left arm.

suddenly, something knocked into you.

a man with a baskets clipped your side hard, sending you into bucky’s solid side.

"oi!" the man snapped, tossing a word over his shoulder. "buang."

you blinked, catching your balance against bucky’s frame. confusion wrinkled your brow. "i'm sorry," you called after him. your voice was nothing but polite yet puzzled, "i don't understand.."

the man stopped, turning back to you as he l vaguely to the crowded path ahead of you. "buang ka? pag tanaw asa ka padung!"

before you could even process the unfamiliar sounds, bucky moved. just a subtle shift. he didn't raise his voice, but it cut through the market din.

"hey." just one word. the man froze mid-gesture, his eyes widening slightly as they met bucky’s. "accident happened. no need to be rude to her. walk on."

the man’s bravado deflated under bucky’s scrutiny. he muttered something unintelligible, shot you a look, and melted back into the crowd.

you stared after him, then up at bucky, bewildered. "huh? what did he say? what language was that?"

a low chuckle rumbled in bucky’s chest, the storm clouds in his eyes clearing instantly as he looked down at you.

his large hand settled reassuringly, on the small of your back, guiding you gently forward through the press of bodies.

"cussed you out, doll," he murmured, and gave your waist a comforting squeeze. "don't sweat it. let's go."

[killerblueeyesxprettybluedude]

in which stiles finds derek chained up in the argent’s basement. and then derek sees stiles, and his face switches from pained exhaustion to absolute outrage, and he says, “do you somehow not see where you are right now? you don’t wanna be involved in this, stiles! so turn around, right now, and run.”

and just leave him there to be tortured some more? yeah, that’s not happening. 

“so, fun fact,” stiles says, waving a little silver key, “but handcuff keys are actually pretty universal. or they are in the US, anyway. so, if you happen to make a couple copies…”

and then derek’s grimacing, rubbing his wrists, and his shoulders.

“follow me for more lifehacks,” stiles says to no one, and derek looks at him. “uh, inside joke.”

“with yourself?” derek says, and stiles says, “hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. i’m sure you of all people could use more whimsy in your life.”

“i think i’m good,” derek says, and then stiles says, “we should probably run now.”

“and leave you here alone?” derek says. “i don’t think so.”

“well what then?” stiles says. “you gonna bite your way out?” 

“maybe next time,” derek says, and wraps an arm around him, and then—stiles’ shoes are barely skimming the ground, and they’re both moving at hyperspeed.

“note to self,” stiles says. “wait to eat until after a derek rescue.” 

he’s somehow managed not to vomit until no longer in motion. still, it’s a very close call. 

“you’ll get used to it,” derek says, and stiles says, “no i will not. we’re never doing that again, oh my god.”

“we’ll see,” derek says, shrugging, and stiles says, “next time? i’m gonna vomit all over you.” 

but he goes quiet when he checks on derek’s torture wounds again. 

and then derek touches stiles’ throat, and all the nausea wipes away. 

“whoa,” stiles says. “how, wait…”

“we can take pain,” derek says. “it’s easy.”

“well, that’s… handy to know,” stiles says. then, “hey! it’s literally handy.”

even derek’s worst wounds are vanishing, now. like none of it happened at all.

“so crazy,” stiles says, tracing where the wound was. his shirt’s still just as bloody. “what’d she even want, huh?”

“the alpha?” derek says. ��at least, that was the excuse for it.” 

“yeah, i wonder why some alpha is going around killing werewolf hunters,” stiles says. “if this is what they do to like, the innocent ones.” 

and derek shivers. “i’m not innocent.”

“yeah, that’s what all the bad guys say,” stiles says. his voice keeps coming out so soft without him even meaning it to. “the real threats, you know, they have to warn everyone who starts to fall for their charm. ‘cause like, they wouldn’t be able to live with themselves otherwise.”

“there’s a lot you don’t know about me, stiles,” derek says. “and trust me, you don’t wanna know.”

“try me,” stiles says, and derek shivers again.

he looks terrified. 

“it doesn’t have to be now,” stiles says, and derek shakes his head.

“no, you should know—what could happen.”

he swallows, and breathes in, and breathes out hard.

he doesn’t say anything else.

“i killed my mom,” stiles says. “i’m the reason.”

“what?” derek says. “no you’re not.”

“my dad told me,” stiles says. “it was like, the week after, and i knew… i knew there was something on his mind, the whole week, whenever he looked at me, you know? like i knew, i knew the answer already. so i… i just asked him, that night, and he told me.”

“that’s not,” derek says, and then, “how drunk was he?”

and stiles stares at him. “how did you…”

but it doesn’t matter, anyway. 

that just makes it truer, if anything. lowered inhibitions, right? so everything just spills out. 

“did he even remember saying it?” derek says. “in the morning.”

stiles shrugs. “does it really matter? if that’s what he really thinks…”

“it’s not,” derek says, and stiles says, “yeah, well you don’t know that. so i’m not so innocent either.”

“it’s not the same,” derek says, and stiles scoffs. “it’s not even close, stiles.” 

“the fire, huh?” stiles says, and derek looks up at him sharply. “and your domme of the day. who was also your substitute teacher for like five minutes in the tenth grade, right when her dad was the principal. what are the odds?”

“how do you…” derek says, and stiles says, “i may have… copied my dad’s file on the fire? and the motive becomes a lot less of a mystery once you know about werewolves. and then, hey, i wonder what the like, biggest hunter family in town were up to at the time! but yeah, who knows what went down, right? maybe kate just really loved english back then.”

“it’s not that simple,” derek says. “i’m the one who—pursued her. in the beginning.”

“oh, well in that case you’re incredibly dangerous,” stiles says. “i don’t know what i was thinking. a kid with a crush? yeah, you clearly caused that fire single-handedly.”

“no,” derek says, and then, “i don’t know.”

it feels real. maybe.

it feels shitty not paying for it. and just… waking up, and playing normal, like it doesn’t even matter. like it doesn’t even matter that it happened at all. 

like she wasn’t even real, but she was your mom. 

and derek doesn’t say anything. for a long time, nobody says anything. 

they just stay close, and breathe the same air for a while. 

[nuvemcinza456]

Bad Moon

(Isadora Capri x reader)

(English is not my first language) (Werewolf!reader) (first heat) (Student!reader) (part 1)

It was a quiet morning in Nevermore, but ever since Wenesday had been rushed out of Willon Hill and admitted to the hospital, everything had been a bit... weird, more than usual.

Vampires were more wary of werewolves, some Gorgons were petrifying crows and other small animals – nothing that would hurt them, of course – but they released them into closed rooms and when they returned to their normal form they ended up scaring the poor thing that was inside. The mermaids? They were even more... them. Y/N was more lost than usual. Normally, at this time, she would be in Miss. Capri's music class, she was part of the school orchestra, transverse flute. She would be practicing, playing, and being corrected, listened to by the beautiful music teacher—obviously Y/n wouldn't complain about being corrected by her—but to her dismay, the teacher had temporarily suspended classes for personal reasons. Y/N didn't blame her, Miss. Capri was in Willon Hill when that Frankenstein zombie escaped, and the Hyde.

"Poor Miss. Capri..." was one of Y/N's thoughts, the other competing with it was "Poor me without her." It was, indeed, cruel of her to think such a thing; maybe Miss Capri must be traumatized, perhaps even too scared to come to school. Y/N hadn't been thinking straight since last night when a strange heat began to build in her body, in her belly, in her heart racing in the dead of night, and a throbbing pressure between her legs. May all the gods forgive her, but she was agitated, her mind racing, and full of confused, racing thoughts. She felt needier than she had in her entire life.

Y/N was focusing her eyes on the phone screen, which had already turned off due to the lack of action, the lack of movement and the lack of concentration of her mind on always returning to Miss Capri.

Capri.

Capri..

Miss. Capri..

Isadora Capri.

That name had been echoing in Y/N's mind since she opened her eyes, and until that moment, all her thoughts had been on – Isadora Capri. – Miss Capri.

It was like a curse. What the hell was happening to her? Y/N was sure she was going crazy. She missed Miss Capri's scent, her voice, the sight of her fingers moving in the air as if drawing musical notes. Y/N was crazy, truly crazy. That pressure in her belly, that throbbing between her legs, that damn thing was already hurting, it was so painful, her senses seemed to go from hypersensitive to hyper-depressed in the blink of an eye. She needed to talk to Miss Capri seriously about what was going on or she would go crazy.

— Y/N, are you okay? — Enid’s voice pulled Y/N out of her thoughts, making her turn to the werewolf beside her. — You’ve been staring at your phone screen for about fifteen minutes, and you’re standing still like a statue, and you’re hyperventilating. — Enid pursed her lips and tilted her head. — And… — she cleared her throat and murmured. — You smell good..but not like perfume..I mean, like, too good, you know? This is..weird. Have you thought about going home? You don’t look well.

Okay, now Y/N was really worried. Why? Enid was worse than anyone else there. Since Wenesday had been admitted, there hadn't been anyone more shaken, tearful, and on edge than Enid; and if she was saying Y/N looked bad...then Y/N must have been a pitiful mess to be around.

— I.. I'm just a little tired, Enid.. — Y/N murmured and her eyes turned to the screen of the switched off phone, she put it away.

— A little? You were mumbling Mrs. Capri's name when I got close...it was pretty weird. Do you...want me to call her? It sounds like you need some advice...and maybe a doctor...or two.

— You're funny, huh. Ha-ha-ha, I was sick laughing — Y/N rolled her eyes, straightening her body and turning back to the patio — I just...woke up feeling weird.

— Did you just wake up feeling weird? You're completely weird... and look, that's me saying it... me. — Enid looked down at herself — Those pants definitely don't go with that blouse. Damn, what was I thinking? Oh yeah... Wenesday — Enid's expression fell briefly before she shook her head and cleared her throat — Okay! Look, I'll call Mrs. Capri and you and she can talk and she'll... fix whatever's wrong with you, but until then... please don't get out of bed... or go near another werewolf. That smell of yours is strangely attractive, like... ants with candy.

Y/N frowned at Enid's final words, nodding slightly before waving away absently. She wanted to be fully focused on Enid's words, but she wasn't. She stopped listening 100% when she heard the words "Mrs. Capri," "call her," "take care of you" in a single sentence.

Something in Y/N's body worsened when she heard that name spoken aloud. Something stirred in a tingling, a louder pulse, a surge of adrenaline.

Enid made a gagging sound and held her nose, letting out a "shit!" in a jumping voice and turning away.

— What? What happened?! — Y/N moved further away from Enid as if she had been the one to receive the shock that Enid had apparently just received.

— You, out of nowhere, started smelling five times stronger! — Enid exclaimed in a somewhat desperate tone as she waved her hands in the midst of the sudden nervousness that she definitely didn't want to explain why it arose.

Enid practically ran out and, in a half-shouting voice, exclaimed from a distance during the rush, "I'm going to call her! Go to your room!"

Y/N stood still, her eyes watching her friend walk away. This was getting a little complicated and she was even more confused. What was going on? But she obeyed. She turned around, took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, and left for her room in the dorms.

_____

Sorry, I know this is a bit short, but I'm kind of out of ideas. Part 2 later this week! (Maybe today or tomorrow)

[sabxhere]

RAIIIIIIII, RAI WHAT THE FUCK RAI RAI WBWHWBHWBWHWJWJWJ😭😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖

WHEN YOU SAID "I'm dedicating the next one to you" I THOUGHT LIKE, SOME TIME WOULD PASS BEFORE YOU POSTED IT, NOT THAT I WOULD GET HIT OVER THE HEAD VIOLENTLY WITH PEAK AFTER YESTERDAY'S BANGER, OH MY GOD, I'M BLEEDING ON THE GROUND FROM PEAK INDUCED CONCUSSION,,,,,I FEAR I'LL NEVER GET UP OR BE NORMAL AGAIN, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE OH MY GODVWHWHWHWHWHWJ💖💖💖💖💖💖

HOLD ON, NAW, CAUSE YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHEN I SAW THE NOTIF I THOUGHT "railwynn tagged me in a post??? ohhh, what!!! That's so exciting, lemme check it—!" AND THEN I FUCKING READ THE CAPTION AND HEARD THE SONG AND THE ANIMATIC STARTED PLAYING AND I THOUGHT "NO FUCKING WAY NO FUCKING WAY NO FUCKING WAY" IN TECHNICOLORS, I LITERALLY SPENT THE ENTIRE TIME WATCHING THIS WITH LIKE, A HAND COVERING MY MOUTH AND THE WIDEST EYES AND THEN SMILE IRL, CAUSE OH MY GOD, THE SURPRISE, THE CUTENESS OF THE ANIMATIC, RAI YOU KILLED ME, RAI I'M DEAD STOP BLUDGEONING ME OVER AND OVER AGAIN WITH PEAK, GIRL, GIRL, IT'S OVER, I'M NOT BREATHING ANYMORE, GIRLLLLLLWHEHWBWHEHWJ😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖/SILLY/VVVVVPOS

UMMMM, ANYWAYS, GOSH, OKAY LEMME LOCK IN KINDA, AUGH, THIS LITERALLY MADE MY WHOLE EFFING WEEK, HOLD ON AUGH,,,,,OKAY, OKAY I NEED TO LOCK IN, "monster" is such a detey song it's killing me, oh my god, the ukulele too, it's so perfect for them, THE LYRICS, KILL ME KILL ME KILL MEEEEEEEBWJWHWHWJWJ😭😭😭💖💖💖OH I'M SO COOKED, THIS IS MY ROMAN EMPIRE I FEAR, I NEED TO LOCK TF AND STOP GUSHING TO ACTUALLY TALK ABOUT THE ANIMATIC, BUT OMG IT'S SO HARD, SCREAMING SO LOUDLY😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖

Any shot with petey looking at dogman and him being surrounded by sparkles and seen in softest way possible from petey's perspective, PLEAAAAASSSE, WTF WTF, IT'S SO CUTE, AUGHHHH, AND HOW THROUGHOUT THE ANIMATIC PETEY GOES FROM FLUSTERED AND NOT WANTING TO LOOK HIM IN THE EYES CAUSE HE FEELS VULNERABLE, BUT AFTER DOGMAN REASSURES HIM AND GETS CLOSE AND SNUGGLES TO HIM, HE LITERALLY CAN'T TAKE HIS EYES OFF OF HIM, RELEASE ME RELEASE ME FROM THIS ENCLOSURE, I NEED TO BE PUT DOWN LIKE A DOG RIGHT TF NOWWWWW😭😭😭💖💖💖💖

The frowny blushing expression petey has at first is so adorable, and the flashbacks!!! I was so silly excited when I saw them, ahhh yes, "hey babe do you remember when your job was hunting me down for sports and how we went at each other's necks 5 times a week?? Good times😌💖💖"/SILLY/J HWHEJWHWNWJW GIGGLING, JOKES ASIDE, IT'S SO GOOD, their progress and how they grew as people it's so good, ughhh, and the flashbacks are so cute, I WAS GIGGLING SO SO BAD AT THE ONE WITH DOGMAN CHOMPING ON PETEY S ARM, HAHAHAHAHA

PETEY LOOKING AT THE STARRY SKY WHILE SAYING "I've always felt like a monster" AND REMINISCING OF HIS CHILDHOOD AND PAST, AND HOW SMOOTHLY THE TRANSITION FROM PRESENT TO HIS KID SELF GOES, RAIIIIII😭😭😭AND HIM SEEING GRACE AND GRAMPA FIGHTING, THE BROKEN PLATE ON THE FLOOR, OH FUCK, ALSO FORGIVE ME IF I'M WRONG, BUT, the shot with him having the collar and leash, is it a reference to petey's past, in the super diaper baby series, where he's dr dilbert's pet??? MAYBE IT'S NOT AND I'M LOOKING TOO INTO THINGS, BUT IF IT IS, THAT'S SO SO COOL, AND I'M SCREAMING SO LOUDLY RN, I NEED TO BE LOCKED UP ACTUALLY

WHEN DOGMAN BUTTS HIS HEAD AGAINST HIM. AND PETEY'S TOO FLUSTERED TO FUNCTION FOR A SECOND AND IS STARING UP IN WONDER LIKE "how is this my life, how did I get so lucky" AND THEN RECIPROCATES THE CUDDLE WITH THE "but I could get used to this" LINE, PLEAAAAASEEE, I CANNOT TAKE IT ANY LONGER I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE RAI, WTFFFFFFFF, JUST KILL MEEEEEEE, IT WOULD BE QUICKER, SOBBING PATHETICALLY😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖/SILLY/POS

The way they look at each other, their sweet smiles, the way petey's eyes light up when he says "and I love that it means—" , DOGMAN CRADLING HIS FACE, THE KISS THE KISS THE KISSTEHEKISSWHWBWHWHWHWHHWHWHWH💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Closing my eyes, I'm ready to go now, I'm ready, getting dragged away by the grim reaper, it's okay, I'm in a better place now, I wouldn't have wanted to go out in a better way😭😭😭💖💖💖

RAI, THIS IS. SO FUCKING GOOD, WORDS CANNOT ENCOMPASS HOW MUCH THIS IS DEAR TO ME AND HOW CUTE AND CHARMING I FIND IT NOR HOW MUCH I'M IN AWE AT THESE AMAZING FRAMES, I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU WANTED TO DEDICATE SUCH AN INCREDIBLE PIECE TO ME, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, you're so sweet and kind, aughhhhh😭😭😭💖💖💖

Anotha one -that I hadn't finished lkshjgkls Don't mind the mess T0T, but we can all agree that "Monster" from Adventure Time is a detey song right? Right. Dedicating this one to @sabxhere for being such a cool supporter, you a real one uwu

[kiwiatoll]

DAMN IT NERD ⋆˚࿔ ARE YOU LISTENING?

pair loser!jake x hot!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags creampie, cockwarming, overstim, dirty talk = nerd talk, jake likes legos ✿ scene jake is sweet, dumb, and accidentally packing a weapon between his legs. no one understands how he landed his insanely hot gf, not even him. but she loves him anyway, even if he won’t shut up about legos, star wars, or his ridiculous love for her… especially during sex. note let’s pretend jake likes star wars ─── library ⊹ ࣪

like + reblog appreciated <3 click to join taglist

You’re not even sure how you got here.

Well, no… you do know. You were in bed, legs tossed over Jake’s shoulders, back arched, spine pressed into the mattress like a damn sticker. He was inside you. Deep. Relentlessly deep, like he was on a fucking mission.

You weren’t sure what the mission was, but Jake clearly was.

He was, talking.

Still.

“You know the Republic Gunship set?” he pants, rocking into you a little too slow for how breathless he sounds. “I’ve been saving up for it. It’s so cool. It has, like—twenty clone troopers. Twenty. And they all have these little helmets that come off. I didn’t even know they did that until—until I watched this review last week—shit, you feel so good—wait, so anyway—”

You cut him off with a groan, fisting the sheets. “Jake.”

“Huh?” He looks down at you, blinking like a golden retriever who just got caught chewing drywall. “What?”

“You’re talking about Legos again.”

“Oh.” He pushes his hips forward with a little whine. “Sorry. You’re just so warm and I was thinking about that set and how cool it’d be to build it with you while we watch Clone Wars and—and—fuck, you’re squeezing me again.”

You squeeze him on purpose this time. “That’s because you’re babbling about minifigs while you’re raw inside me, Jake.”

His eyes go big. “You like when I’m raw inside you.”

“I did. Before you compared it to building a Lego set.”

“Okay, okay, fair.” He nuzzles your neck like he’s not splitting you in half. “But also? You’re kinda like a Lego set.”

You stare at him. “Jake.”

“I mean that lovingly.”

You drop your head back against the pillow. “I swear to God, if this is going where I think it’s going—”

“Because like. You’ve got all these beautiful little pieces. And I wanna learn how they all fit together. Every time I touch you it’s like I’m figuring out where the next part goes—”

“Jake.”

“—like, do I kiss here?” He sucks a hickey under your jaw. “Touch here?” Trails his hand between your legs. “Or maybe—fuck—maybe I just fuck you and see what happens.”

You’re clenching again. Hard. And you hate that it works.

He beams. “See? You do like my metaphors.”

“I like your dick,” you hiss, arching as he thrusts up and hits that spot. “I tolerate your metaphors.”

“You love my metaphors,” he says smugly, fucking deeper like he’s trying to prove it.

You moan into the heel of your palm. “You’re insufferable.”

Jake whimpers, forehead tipping to yours. “You’re so hot when you’re mean to me.”

“You’re hot when you shut up.”

He slows, just a little, and looks genuinely wounded. “You don’t like when I talk?”

“I love when you talk,” you gasp. “Just not when I’m trying to come and you’re talking about fucking battle packs.”

“Oh.” He slips out almost entirely, just to push in again, hard. You cry out. His ears go pink. “Noted.”

You try to glare. You really do. But he leans down to kiss you and his stupid soft lips and stupid tongue make you forget how to breathe, let alone stay mad.

And the way he’s throbbing inside you doesn’t help.

Jake pulls away with a dumb little grin. “I think I’m gonna come. Can I stay in? I know I asked earlier but I wanna make sure it’s still okay—”

“Jake, yes, God, yes—”

He sinks into you one last time and shudders, full-body, like he’s short-circuiting. You feel him twitch, warm and heavy, and moan his name as his hand clutches at your waist like he’s scared you’ll float away.

He comes like he’s overwhelmed. Pretty and flushed, forehead pressed to your collarbone, one hand gripping your thigh like a lifeline.

You’re both panting. Slick. Shaking a little.

And then.

“Did you know the Lego Titanic set is almost four feet long—”

“Jake.”

“Sorry! I’m just—still inside you and happy and thinking about boats and I love you and—”

You grab his face and kiss him hard. He whimpers against your mouth, cock twitching again, not soft at all.

You pull back. “You’re gonna shut up now, right?”

“Totally,” he breathes, blinking fast. “Except—can I keep talking if it’s just about you?”

You blink. “Maybe.”

Jake buries his face in your neck. “Cool. ‘Cause I was gonna say, you’re prettier than every minifig I’ve ever owned. Like, if you were a collectible, I’d never take you out of the box.”

You groan. “That’s not romantic, Jake.”

He laughs. “I thought it was.”

You wrap your legs tighter around him and sigh. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“I’m lucky you let me fuck you.”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then, very slowly, starts moving again. Just a little. Deep and slow, the kind of rhythm that makes your eyes roll back.

“Can I stay in?” he murmurs. “Just for a bit?”

You nod.

He smiles. “Cool. You feel better than any Lego set.”

You cover his mouth. “Just fuck me.”

You don’t know why you let him stay inside. You really don’t.

Maybe it’s the way he’s so big, the way he fills you up like you were made for it. Maybe it’s the post-orgasm brain melt. Maybe it’s the genuinely tragic puppy-dog look he gave you when he asked if he could just stay for a little while longer.

You said yes. Like a fool.

And now he’s talking again.

“Okay, but hear me out,” he mumbles against your collarbone. “If you were a Lego piece, I feel like you’d be one of those rare ones that only come in, like, three sets. And I’d trade my whole collection just to have two of you.”

“Jake.”

“Or like, like if I was building a Millennium Falcon and your piece wasn’t in the box? I’d cry. Like actual tears. I’d email Lego Customer Support and tell them it was a tragedy. I’d say my girlfriend is missing. That I can’t build without her. That it’s ruining my life—”

“You’re still inside me.”

“I know. That’s why I’m being romantic.”

You groan and throw an arm over your face. “Your idea of romance is comparing my vagina to missing plastic.”

“It’s not just plastic, it’s—hey, wait—” He props himself up on an elbow, wide-eyed. “Are you getting mad again?”

“I’m not mad,” you sigh. “I’m just. So full. And so tired. And you’re talking about spaceships and crying and clone troopers while your dick is still hitting my goddamn cervix.”

Jake flushes. Hard. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just…this is like, peak life for me. Like, I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I think about it a lot and it makes me feel like I should be doing more. Like, you’re smart, and you wear those little skirts that make my brain short-circuit, and you never make fun of me for how much I love Star Wars even when I definitely deserve it—”

“Jake.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you getting hard again?”

He pauses. You feel him twitch inside you.

“…Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I can’t help it!” he whines, and somehow he sounds genuinely upset about it. “You’re so warm and soft and I like how you clench when I say dumb stuff, and I know I’m not supposed to keep talking, but I love you and I’m having a feelings crisis and also your tits are out and I didn’t even mention them yet.”

You uncover your eyes and glare. “Don’t.”

Jake glances down at your chest. Immediately goes pink. “Too late.”

You shift under him and he moans, a soft, helpless sound like he’s ashamed to have made it. You can feel him starting to get hard again, slow and steady like a threat.

And the worst part is? You like it. Your body’s already reacting. He’s still so thick, so deep, and now he’s whining like he can’t help but want more of you.

“God, you’re pretty,” he whispers, like he’s confessing something serious. “And I’m, ugh, I’m such a loser, I know. Everyone always asks how I got you and I never have an answer. They’re like, ‘is she into Legos too?’ and I have to lie and say yes, just so they don’t try to hit on you.”

You laugh. You shouldn’t, but you do. “So you lie about me being into Legos to keep me safe?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s the only way.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Jake beams. “Your idiot.”

He leans down and kisses you again, sloppy, soft, so sweet it makes your stomach flip, and you groan against his mouth when he accidentally rocks his hips.

And just like that, you’re clenching again. Wanting him. Wanting it all over again.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp. “Oh. That was—yeah. We’re doing it again, right?”

You roll your eyes. “Not if you keep talking.”

“I can be quiet!”

“You can’t.”

“I can. Watch—” He places a hand over his own mouth.

You raise a brow. “You look ridiculous.”

He wiggles his brows, nods, then thrusts.

You gasp. His hand flies off his mouth. “Oh fuck, that was hot—”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” He puts it back. Mutters behind his palm, “I just love you so much.”

You stare at him, flushed, wrecked, still hard and inside you, his hand awkwardly slapped over his own mouth, and you realize something terrible.

You’re gonna marry this dumbass.

You sigh, toss your head back, and say, “Fine. Just shut up and fuck me again.”

Jake nods furiously. Slips his hand from his face and whispers, “Yes, Captain.”

You sigh into the pillow.

🪷 ─── @gyarumindd

[nochepsicodelica]

"Really?" Toji asks, nudging your shoulder to wake you up, when he gets a good look at your back turned to him. His voice is slightly raspy with sleep, low in volume from its lack of use.

"Mm..." you hum in response, eyes shut as you try to ease back into slumber. You're in a curled position, your limbs wrapped around one of your extra pillows.

"Really?" Toji repeats, pawing at your shoulder, again.

"Yes, Toji," you say, quietly, not understanding what he's talking about, but agreeing just so that you can get back to sleep.

"Be serious, ma. Really?"

"What?" You ask, your tone somewhat laced with irritation, now.

It goes quiet for a few seconds, and then out of nowhere you hear the sheets rustling and the bed feels lighter. You're thinking there's no way he's so upset that he's leaving the room to sleep on the couch. He's the one who seemingly didn't want to cuddle, so you made do with what you had and grabbed a pillow.

You're snapped out of your attempt to go back to sleep when you feel your pillow trying to be yanked out of your arms.

"Let go of it," Toji mutters.

"What-" you grunt as you pull back and attempt to keep the pillow in your grasp. "What are you doing? Get back in bed, Toji." You hold on as tight as you can to the pillow that is slowly being torn out of your hands. "You're not gonna like when I let go and you're flung towards the wall."

"And you're not gonna like the punishment you earn if that happens. Let go of the pillow. Now."

You stare Toji down, holding your own against him. You know this isn't all of his strength and that he can easily rip the pillow out of your clutches, if he really wanted to, but like a dog with something it shouldn't have in its mouth, you're unwilling to do what he says.

"Listen up, doll, if you don't let go in the next five seconds, you're in for it."

"You're the one who pushed me away."

"Five."

"I need to hug something to sleep comfortably."

"Four."

"It's a pillow, Toji," you say, incredulously.

"Three."

"You're gonna take away my source of comfort?"

"Two."

"Toji."

"One. Let go."

"Oh my god," you groan, irritatedly. "Fine." You release the pillow, allowing Toji to take it away. You watch in disbelief as he throws it at the door so you can't get it without leaving the bed. You huff and scoot as close as you comfortably can to your end of the bed without falling off, before he returns to his side.

"Geeet back here." An arm is thrown over your waist, dragging you closer towards the center of the bed, until your back meets his front and his legs are tangled with yours. "Where are you going, huh? Still chasing after that pillow?"

"All of a sudden you wanna be close to me?" You scoff, in disbelief.

"So much attitude," he murmurs. His hand goes under your shirt, gliding up your warm skin to rest on your tummy. "Need me to give it to you all seven days, now?"

"No," you grumble.

"Well, that's what it's sounding like, to me." A kiss is planted on your shoulder. "Fix that tone, mama."

"You're so unfair. You're the one who didn't want to be held, but as soon as you noticed that I wasn't holding you, you took away my source of comfort. What did you want me to do, Toji?"

"I didn't even push you away, I rolled away in my sleep. It doesn't count."

You just hum in response, no longer in the mood to bicker about something so trivial when you could be working on getting back to sleep. A few seconds of silence go by, a spark of tension formed due to your lack of words.

"Ma?" He calls, barely pinching your soft, warm skin.

You sigh, blinking your eyes open. "What?"

"You mad?" His hand flattens on your tummy, rubbing slowly, as he waits for you to respond.

"No," you say, quiet and icy, even in its subtlety.

"That's a lie," Toji says, chuckling. "Come on, doll. What's got you all hot?"

It's hard not to melt into his touch. The kisses he presses to your shoulder only add on to the difficulty.

"Doesn't matter," you say, still trying to remain stoic.

"Yeah, it does. Now, tell me," he insists. "You're really gonna make me beg at almost two in the morning?"

"I was sleeping, and you woke me up 'cause you were butthurt over me hugging a pillow. There. Does that satisfy you?" You respond, and Toji has the audacity to laugh. You want to laugh too, but your stubbornness and pride will not easily allow you to.

"Poor baby," he coos, a mocking lilt to his tone. "You wanna tell me how to make it better?"

"You're an ass," you bite, no sharpness in your tone whatsoever.

"Ooh, I can hear that pout. You want a kiss? 'Cause I can give you one," he whispers, in your ear.

"Shut up," you mumble, trying not to give away the curling of your lips.

"You want a baby in here?" He asks, gently pressing into your stomach with his index finger.

"No! What?" You say, your giggles finally beginning to surface.

"Gotcha. Made you laugh," he says, pressing his face into the nape of your neck. He presses a kiss to the area before squeezing you in his arms, tight enough to make you groan until he eases up. "Now, tell me how to make it better. Come on, ma. It's not good to go to sleep mad."

You sigh, not wanting to argue with this annoying, yet, charming man, anymore. "Just help me get back to sleep," you mumble.

"Oh, I can do that," he says, a low chuckle homing into your ears. His hand lifts your shirt up more, aiming to get more access to your chest.

"Not like that, you perv!" You chide, pinning his hand on your mid-center. "Can you do that thing you always do?" You guide his hand down, until it rests just above your navel. He knows what you mean, and if this is what it takes for you to not be mad at him, he'll do it.

"You're like a baby that needs to be soothed to sleep," Toji murmurs, as he begins caressing your tummy, drawing little shapes on your skin that fuel your tiredness.

You huff out a laugh. "Acting like you don't drool and snore the second I start playing with your hair when you lay your head on my chest."

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[alinathinkstoomuch]

GAME NIGHT, RUINED

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (was supposed to be nanny!reader but lit rally no mentions of her being a nanny LOL) summary: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life. warnings | an: p in v sex, choking, one bite, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink?? hotch profiling reader and its so sexy i want to kith him on the mouth, there is aftercare i just didn’t write it, oopsies, established relationship word count: 2.9k

✧ masterlist

In all fairness, you hadn't actually read the rules of the game before suggesting it tonight. But maybe Penelope had – and maybe that's exactly why she'd wrapped it in floral paper with a gingham ribbon, like it was some sweet little gift and not a trap in disguise.

Because now here you were, cheeks warm, pulse ticking too fast, staring down a question that made your soul want to leave your body.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad.

You liked being manhandled. Liked a little choking – nothing too wild, just enough to feel it. Worst things have happened. Honestly, it wasn't even that big a deal.

Until you looked up... and saw Aaron’s eyes on you.

You swallowed, looking back down at the card again just as a breathless little laugh slipped out.

Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should.

“Pretty sure we’ve already had this one,” you said, maybe a little too brightly, as you tucked the card neatly under the deck like it was nothing. “Next!”

You barely brushed the edge of a new card before Aaron’s hand closed over the stack, pulling it right out of reach.

“Oh, are we done playing?” you asked innocently, sitting up a little straighter as your hands slid to your thighs. “Good idea.” You were on your feet now. “Pretty sure there’s a pile of laundry upstairs with my name on it –”

“Sit.”

Your hands hovered for a second before landing on your hips, a half-formed protest catching in your throat, but you obeyed, lowering yourself back down onto the couch, trying to act unbothered. Trying to ignore the way your heart had picked up speed.

“We haven’t been playing this game long enough to get the same card twice,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Really? Huh. Could’ve sworn we already had that one.”

He arched a brow. “What was it?”

“Aaron come on,” you deflected, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “It was something silly.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the deck over in his hand, eyes scanning the top card.

“Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should,” he read aloud. “Hm. Definitely don’t recall hearing your answer to this.”

“You don’t?” you said weakly.

“Just because you keep repeating everything I say doesn’t mean you’re going to get out of answering.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“You begged to play this game,” he continued calmly. “And now you’re skipping cards?” He gave you a dry look. “That hardly seems fair.”

You let out a quiet huff and leaned back into the couch, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Your heart was beating faster than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust him – you did. Completely. You knew he’d never shame you or make you feel small for wanting something.

But he’d also seen the worst of humanity. He’d spent his career staring into the darkest corners of people’s minds. You weren’t sure how he’d feel knowing his girlfriend got turned on by things like rough hands. The feeling of being pinned down and utterly helpless, even when she wasn’t.

It sounded a lot messier out loud than it did in your head.

“I just…” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal. It’s probably not even your thing.”

“Well, if you’re unhappy in that department, I’d absolutely like to know what it is.”

“Oh my God – no, no. Not at all. I’m not – unhappy.” Your voice pitched as high as your hands flew up in protest, and now you were spiralling. “I’m very happy. I’m, like, obscenely happy. I think your ability to give me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in my entire life before meeting you should be studied. Or patented. Or possibly banned in several states –”

He blinked once. Then bit back a smile.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately,” you muttered into your palms.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice dipping just a little. “Or am I going to have to profile it out of you?”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

He gave a mild shrug. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Your heart thudded.

“You get flustered when you lose control of the conversation. Especially with me. You fidget more. You avoid eye contact like you’re doing right now.”

You shifted almost immediately.

“You like routine and structure. You’re organised to a fault, but the second I step into your space and do something unexpected, you melt.” He tilted his head. “You act like it annoys you, but I’ve watched you for long enough to know it doesn’t. When I back you against the counter. When I pull your hair back mid-sentence just to kiss your neck. When I don’t ask and take instead. You don’t stop me, you lean into it.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You like being told what to do,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was always obvious. “In little ways. Safe ways. And when you’re overwhelmed, your instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to submit.”

He watched as your throat worked around a hard swallow.

“You like it when I’m in control.”

Your legs pressed together tight. Too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He smiled. “You throw around sarcasm, roll yours eyes, push back, pretend to fuss when I get bossy. But the second I tell you what to do – really tell you – you listen.”

You stared at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“And the truth is, you don’t want to say it out loud because you think it’ll sound messed up. But it doesn’t.” He paused for a second. “I understand you and I’m not judging you. I want to give you what you need.”

Another moment of silence passed before he added, “But if you keep pressing your thighs together like that, I’m going to start thinking we’re done playing this game.”

You let a breath out before speaking. “I…I think we’re done playing,” you managed, voice hoarse.

“Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

“Then get upstairs.”

You rose on shaky legs and turned towards the stairs, amazed you didn’t trip over yourself on the way up. You could hear him following behind unhurried, while your vision nearly swam from what he’d managed to do to you with just words.

Inside the bedroom, you stopped at the foot of the bed, unsure whether to turn around or stay still. But you didn’t have to ask.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed immediately.

He stepped in close, the heat of him pressing into you just as his hand gripped a firm handful of your hair giving it a tug.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against your neck. “You’ve been so worked up since downstairs.” His lips trailed along your jaw slowly, down the curve of your neck, before you felt him bite down gently, his tongue smoothing over the sting.

“Clothes off, sweetheart.” He took a step back, giving you space.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes tracked every inch of newly exposed skin, like he was cataloguing every place he intended to touch.

You pushed your pants down next, shimmied them over your hips, then stepped out, standing there in just your bra and panties, chest rising and falling.

“All of it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind and undid your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders. Then finally, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them and standing bare in front of him.

He nodded toward the bed.

You turned and sat on the edge first, heart racing, then eased yourself down, your back meeting the cool sheets as you settled into place beneath his gaze.

It didn’t take long before he was hovering over you, one hand spreading your thighs as he settled between them, the other coming up to rest lightly – so lightly – around your throat.

You whimpered.

“There it is,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “That little sound you make when you’re starting to let go.”

Then his fingers found your clit, and you arched off the bed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure landed exactly where you needed it

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’d think this isn’t ‘my thing.’” His fingers kept working you. “Feel what you’ve done to me.”

Your hand moved down between you, palming him through his jeans – and Christ, was he hard. Straining against the fabric, so much so that it almost felt painful.

He groaned at the contact, his hips instinctively pressing into your touch.

“See?” he murmured, slipping a finger inside you without warning, drawing a moan from deep in your chest. “This is exactly my thing. And you—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “you like this is my thing.”

You gasped, your back arching again, but his other hand was already moving, finding your neck again, pressing down just enough to hold you in place.

He leaned in close, brushing his nose along your cheek, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he added a second finger. “You don’t even realize how pretty you are when you’re desperate, do you?” he whispered. “The way you shake. The way you clench around me when I take my time.”

“Aaron…”

He smiled against your skin. “I could keep you like this all night.”

“Please –” was all you managed, the word falling out in a half-broken whimper.

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, the same time he curled his fingers inside you. You clenched around him so hard you thought your body might unravel right then and there.

“Fuck – I – I –”

“What is it? Tell me exactly what you need.”

You bucked against him, unable to stop it, hands flying to his forearms – not to push him away, but to hold on. He didn’t move, didn’t ease up either of his hands.

“Or… do you want me to decide for you, hm?”

You couldn’t answer, not in words. Your mind was a haze of heat and ache, your breath catching somewhere between a sob and a moan. Your nails dug into his forearms, desperate for some sort of release.

“Too overwhelmed to answer?”

And then he stilled.

Fingers deep inside you, his body caging yours, hand still resting at your throat but no movement. No friction. No relief. You whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to chase more.

“I’ll decide, then,” he said softly, like he was offering kindness. “You want release? Earn it.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, achingly slow, and the loss had you nearly sobbing. But before you could even begin to beg, he brought his slick fingers up between you and pressed them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he murmured. “Taste how worked up you are. Taste what you do to me.”

Your lips parted without thought, wrapping around his fingers. You moaned as your tongue slid over them, tasting yourself on his skin. He pressed a little deeper, a little further down your throat, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking greedily.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice rough now. “So fucking good for me.”

He began making his way down your body, peppering kisses over your chest, you stomach, your hips. You could feel him everywhere, his breath fanning against your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open again.

He lowered himself between your thighs, and when his mouth finally met you again, it was everything.

His tongue lapped at you, circling your clit before dragging lower to taste all of you. He groaned into you, the sound deep, pushing you that much closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moving – hips bucking, thighs twitching, grinding against his face, desperate for more. But he only gripped your hips harder, strong arms pinning you down like it was nothing. Like your squirming didn’t even faze him. Like it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You whimpered, barely coherent and all you could think about was how badly you wanted those bruises. You wanted to see the outline of his fingers tomorrow. You wanted to remember exactly how they got there.

The pressure built low in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble, clenching around his face.

“S’okay baby,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled by your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And that was all it took.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips jolting up off the bed, and you cried out, high and breathless, one hand flying to your mouth, the other tangled in the sheets. You writhed beneath him, overstimulated and soaked, gasping through the aftershocks. Your whole body was twitching, lips parted, chest heaving.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening. “You should see yourself. You don’t even know how beautiful you look when you come.”

You were still catching your breath when you heard the sound of his zipper, the clink of his belt hitting the floor. You reached up to brush a strand of hair off your damp forehead, but your hand dropped the second you felt him between your thighs again, tip dragging slowly along your soaked slit.

Your entire body went still, mouth falling open and he hadn’t even pushed inside you yet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing just long enough to check in.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes wide. “More than okay. So okay.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m just –” you started, breath catching every time the head of his cock slid through your folds. “I’m just saying, I didn’t know it could feel like this, and I – God, Aaron –”

And then he thrusted into you.

One deep stroke that filled you completely, stealing the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth. Your eyes flew open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the pillow, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, his voice hot against your ear. “I thought that might shut you up.”

You could only whimper in response, nails digging into his skin as he stayed there, buried to the hilt, giving you no room to think.

“You feel that?” he murmured, rocking into you once, slow and deep. “You take me so fucking well.”

You nodded, mouth open, breathless. “I wasn’t done talking,” you managed to whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to drag the tip out to your entrance and paused. “Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Try.”

“Fuck y–”

He slammed back in, cutting you off mid-word with a thrust somehow deeper than the last.

“Fuck you?” he echoed smugly. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And he did – hips rocking into yours, each thrust pushing you further into the mattress. Then his hand came up, wrapping around your throat again and you clenched around him, a moan escaping your lips. He let out a low tsk, like he’d caught you misbehaving.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against yours, his thrusts slowing. They were deeper now, rougher, grinding into you with so much intensity you weren’t even sure where your body ended and his began.

“This,” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter, “this is what you were so scared to ask for?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to give him something, anything, but he slammed into you before the words could form, another deep, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“I—Aaron, I—” you tried again, voice thin.

Another thrust. Harder.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed. “You’re not even letting me –”

He did it again, cut you off with a stroke that had your vision going white at the edges.

“Fuck—you’re doing this on purpose,” you whimpered, dazed and desperate.

“I sure am.” His hand tightened just a little more at your throat. “You want to know what my turn-on is?” he muttered, not waiting for an answer. “Seeing you fucked senseless.”

Another thrust hit that perfect spot, making your entire body jerk beneath him. You tried to speak, to respond, but he snapped his hips again and you mewled out whatever nonsense your uncooperative tongue could muster.

“You want to come?”

You nodded frantically, words useless now, tears brimming from the sheer overload.

“Good. Then do it.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, setting a pace in perfect sync with his thrusts. Your hips began to stutter as you screwed your eyes shut, the pressure building too fast to stop.

It took mere seconds before your body seized around him.

“Jesus – fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking tight when you come –”

His rhythm faltered, stammered and then he was slamming into you one last time, your name falling from his lips as he came.

He loosened his grip on your throat, both hands sliding to your ribcage, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

Neither of you spoke. Both of you were too focused on catching your breath, sharing the same shallow air like it might not be enough.

Finally, after a minute, he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Think we should play card games more often.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic

dbf!bodyguard!hotch using food as foreplay coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

dividers by cafekitsune