#Desk Space Optimization | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shokocide · 3 months ago

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LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk

author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.

Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”

There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.

The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”

“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”

“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.

And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.

The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”

You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”

Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.

He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.

It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.

Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.

He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.

He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.

Then you look up.

He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”

He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”

He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.

You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.

You glance up. He’s there.

Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.

You blink. He panics.

“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”

You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”

“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”

There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”

“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”

You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”

You pause, then finally tell him.

He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”

You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”

He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”

“You choked on air.”

He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.

Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”

You blink. “That’s random.”

“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”

You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.

You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.

But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.

And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.

You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.

It doesn’t.

Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.

The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”

She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”

He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.

And you are. You so are.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?

You look away instantly.

You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.

So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.

He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—

“So…”

You turn.

Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.

“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”

You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”

There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.

He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.

You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”

He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated.

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking 😇

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had.

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch.

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Gojo Satoru... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed.

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

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hyruviandoctor · 1 year ago

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Something that sucks that no one talks about is how if you set up your desk (or any other space) in the most optimal way, you will reach a point where you want to move things around for a change of scenery but doing so will make using that space significantly worse to be in

#this is how it was in my last apartment in my bedroom and in my office at work #I want to move my work desk around but I cannot think of a more optimal usage of the space #it's literally laid out in the most perfect way I can do with out making super minor tweaks or an entire overhaul that could make it worse #Tyler Talks

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bogkeep · 11 months ago

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I HAVE DONE IT. MY JOURNEY IS AT ITS END

my friends gifted me these funky rock prints!!!! love to change things up a bit

can i power of friendship my way through the rest of this

#thank u osp stream for keeping me company while i put up my prints #i finished an audiobook earlier. last seen online by lauren james. very fun time #i still haven't found my missing items :(((((( how!!#also i have to accept that my table is always going to feel messt just bc i don't... Have Room.....#i want to have slimes and fidget toys Accessible somewhere and that's just the only space available #SUCH IS LIFE #it feels silly to have put so much effort into Optimizing my tiny living space when i only have less than a year living here #and im gonna spend at least two months total at practice placements #but there's a joy in feeling at home!!!#also it may not be obvious from the pictures but is have a Tea Problem #there's all the tea boxes above the stove #there's a cupboard drawer that's Only Teas #AND the tea box on my 'desk'#im always trying to optimize my tea game. i recently got myself a teapot warmer

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roanofarcc · 2 months ago

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THE PAST MEETS THE FUTURE

pairing: congressmen bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: bucky wasn’t so naive as to believe is past was behind him completely, but he didn’t think he’d pull you down with him

warnings: mentions of Hydra. violence against the reader but nothing overly descriptive. reader is kidnapped. hurt/comfort. ANGST with a happy ending. some slight bucky barnes self-loathing.

word count. 4.1k | masterlist

Bucky Barnes didn’t believe in a higher power or that everything happened for a reason; he’d been delt enough shitty cards to know that couldn’t possibly be true. Yet, he sometimes felt like you stumbling into his office, soaked to the bone from the rain with two soggy coffee cups and a resume printed in red ink, was some sort of divine intervention.

You were a whirlwind of chaos in a never-ending brigade of meetings, conferences, and hearings. You had six alarms set because you had trouble being on time. You sometimes dropped the professional lingo in front of the wrong people. And on more than one occasion, your notes for his briefing were illegible.

He’d been asked why he kept you around and not trade in your wide-eyed gazes for a more polished assistant who always wore matching socks and never traded in his usual coffee order to force him to ‘branch out.’ The thing was, you were far from bad at your job. Even if he couldn’t read your notes, they were more than thorough. You kept his desk clean when it started to match his scattered mind. You made sure he ate and was somehow more timely with his life than your own. You always showed up, rain or shine, like the world was still some bright, shiny thing to you.

Most importantly, you cared. You cared about everything. From the spider who lived in your house plants to the strangers you passed on the streets. You cared about doing good and still believed that the world held a lot of it.

Before Bucky hired you, you made coffee for men who were too good to remember your name and smiled at women who rolled their eyes when you spoke. You weren’t naive either; you knew of those things. You knew that you were bad at juggling too many things and always forgot an umbrella when it rained. You knew that there were bad people and things you couldn’t fix with a smile and upbeat attitude; that didn’t deter you, though. You couldn’t save the world or rid it of evil, but you would try, and you wouldn’t let that shake your optimism.

That was why Bucky kept you around. Each time you waltzed through his office door, it was like the sun emerging after a terrible thunderstorm. A breath of fresh air, a gentle reminder that despite whatever skeletons he had in his closet or evil that lurked in the shadows, there would still be people like you. That was who he was doing it for, suffering through political jargon and torture in the form of galas and networking opportunities disguised behind words like ‘charity’ and ‘fundraiser.’

“Cinnamon or blueberry?” were the first words you said that morning, pushing the door open with your foot as you held two cups of coffee.

Bucky glanced up from a document he’d been mulling over since he arrived just ten minutes prior.

“Who would put blueberries in coffee?” he asked, slight humor playing in his tone.

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you strode up to his desk and set down one of the cups. “Cinnamon it is,” you said. “And to answer your question, a genius.”

With a light chuckle, Bucky reached for the warm cup and felt himself relax just slightly. The world of a congressman was more social than he had anticipated. He worried about spending so much time with people, his patience and social ability pulled to the brink of snapping. On top of that, when it was suggested that he get an assistant, he felt pre-annoyed at the thought of spending his only alone time with someone sharing his office. But you proved to be a nice break from his pandering and polite nodding. It wasn’t a struggle to share a space with you; it became a relief.

When he was able to retreat to his office or kick off his day there, he looked forward to your presence.

“A little birdie told me you won over the favor of Senator Jones,” you said, taking a seat at your desk.

Bucky shrugged. “Maybe. If anything, he doesn’t loathe me, which is progress.”

“I don’t think anyone loathes you.”

“Trust me, they do, but the feeling’s mutual.”

You eyed him for a moment before shaking your head. “I don’t think people like what you’re doing, that’s all.”

Bucky eyed you back, the document forgotten on his desktop. “Yeah? What am I doing?” He didn’t ask it to challenge you, but rather for you to remind him. Bucky often felt lost, like he had joined Congress in a stupid misstep and mistake that he thought he could right his wrong in a different way.

The world had always been ruled by the iron fists of politics, but the grasp only got tighter. He had felt it was either join or be squeezed to death by it. Maybe he could loosen the reins, make a difference even if it was small. But the more he got to know most of the people in the political sphere, the more he feared he had just become another cog in the machine he’d never escape.

“Trying to change things for the better,” you said simply. “Which is more than what most of these people are doing. A lot of them have only known full stomachs, lined pockets, and a world made by them for them. But you? You know how bad things can be. And maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but that’s a good thing. People will see that, eventually.”

He tried to let your words soothe the ache in his brain, patch the doubt in his bones, but even your sugary optimism had a hard time breaking through.

“If they could look past my rap sheet.” There was enough blood on his hands to paint the white house red, inside and out. He’d done terrible things, not all of which could be waved away because he wasn’t in control of his mind. People had a hard time looking past that. They had just enough to elect him as he tugged on the public's adoration of veterans while running. But their support had been weakening since more eyes were on him, meaning more hands dug into his past.

You shook your head. “When people are hung up on the past, you gotta make them focus on the future.”

Bucky smiled, soft and comfortable. He didn’t know where his political career would lead, but he knew that, if you’d have him, he’d keep you along as long as he could. You were light and shook the gloom from his mind, which wasn’t an easy feat.

It was odd, and maybe a little unprofessional, that he enjoyed your presence so. But you were more than just an assistant to Bucky. A friend, perhaps. Someone he could think clearly with and not throw up some mock, veiled version of himself.

“You’ve been hanging around the speech writers?” he said, teasing.

You laughed, a pretty sound that drowned out the drone of the city. “Maybe.”

On your way home, you bundled your jacket close to your body, shoes clicking along the sidewalk as you strode down the familiar path. You walked the same way every day, past your favorite coffee shop and taking a turn by the little family-owned bookstore that stood strong as the city continued to grow around it.

The walk to your apartment wasn’t too bad, something you could walk in your sleep.

In your pocket, your phone buzzed. Picking it up with a smile at the caller ID, you answered, “Miss me already, Congressman?”

On the other line, Bucky let out a small laugh, which you always took as a victory.

When you first heard of the job opening for James Bucanan Barnes' assistant, people butted in with every rumor and grueling detail of the man’s complicated past. That didn’t deter you, though. If anything, it made you more interested in the position.

You expected some brooding, short-tempered, and intimidating man to greet you when you arrived. And perhaps some people would have seen him that way, but you had a habit of noticing the little things about people that others often ignored or overlooked.

Sure, Bucky had a resting expression that bordered on brooding. But you saw the hint of amusement in his bright eyes when you cracked an ill-timed joke or brought him some fancy flavored coffee. You noticed the way he turned his chair when the sunlight of the day peered in through the window of his office, as if he was basking in it, savoring it. You picked up on how the soft hum of the radio untensed his shoulders after a long meeting and how he abandoned the work that stressed him when you started babbling on about something only slightly more interesting.

Despite what others said of him, or the past that haunted him, you saw a man just trying to do good and wade his way through the mountains of bullshit others set in his path. You saw someone tired but determined, and you admired that, which is why you not only stayed at the job but enjoyed it.

“I’m looking for the print-out of Director Dean’s proposal, but can’t seem to…” Bucky trailed off, followed by rustling papers. “Find it.”

“Did you already look through the pile on the right-hand side of your desk?” Bucky hummed in response. You thought for a moment, searching your brain for where you had set down the documents.

As you did so, a shoulder of someone walking opposite you knocked into yours. You stumbled, but shook it off, only to be yanked back as the person passed you, a hand tugging hard on the purse resting on your shoulder. You yelped in surprise as you were spun around on the quiet sidewalk, on a nearly empty side street you knew like the back of your hand.

Bucky said your name, but you were too distracted by the towering man with his face half-hidden by a dark colored hoodie. Before you could tell him to have your purse, keep whatever he wanted, and avoid any trouble, he grabbed your other shoulder and shoved you hard against the side of a building.

You still had your phone in your hand, pressed against the side of your face with white knuckles. “Bucky!” you yelled frantically, a tightness in your chest as panic took hold.

The man tore your purse from your arm, kicking it away along with the hope that he was just there to rob you. The last thing he seemed interested in was your belongings, which made your skin crawl as his dark expression blocked out the soft rays of the setting sunlight.

You heard Bucky ask you what was wrong before repeating your name, but the man ripped your cell from your hand, using his other hand to grab your throat, applying enough pressure to make your panic burn like a wildfire through your veins. You kicked and thrashed, trying to break free, but he was strong, too strong. His finger squeezed your throat, cutting off your air.

Tears fell down your cheeks, but you didn’t give up your struggle. You dug your nails into his hands, peeling back the skin and making him bleed, but he didn’t even flinch at the contact. He was tight-jawed and dead-eyed, choking you out on a street that had once brought you a sense of familiarity and comfort. It all vanished so fast as little black dots peppered your vision.

Despite your efforts, you lost consciousness, succumbing to the inky darkness of the inside of your eyelids.

Satisfied as your body slumped forward, the man dropped you onto the ground before speaking into your cell phone. “Soldat,” he said, voice low and dangerous, promising a harsh reminder to the man on the other side of the call.

Bucky paced back and forth across Sam’s office, clenching and unclenching his fists.

On the computer, Joaquin worked as quickly as his fingers could type to track down your cellphone, while Sam dug up any information on the man who took you. And as much as Bucky wanted to assist, he felt useless and as if every nerve in his body was firing off in the utmost uncomfortable of ways.

He just couldn’t understand how it happened, how he could let something like that happen.

“Bucky, you’re wearing a hole in my carpet,” Sam said.

“I was on the phone with her, Sam,” Bucky said, stopping his pacing only to drag his hands down the length of his face. “And just a block away. I don’t understand-”

Sam placed a warm hand on his shoulder, his face calm in the wake of Bucky’s panic. “Listen, we will find her. We know that whoever took her is only interested in using her to get to you.” Bucky scoffed, Sam’s words only sinking him further into a pit of restlessness. “Which means,” Sam continued. “They will keep her around and drop some kind of hint that’ll send you on their tail. They want a trap, but they don’t know that we know that.”

The rational side of Bucky knew that Sam was right. The people who took you only targeted you to lure him, or rather the Winter Soldier, into whatever scheme or trap they had set up. Yet, Bucky had no idea what they’d do to you in the meantime. Taking you alone was enough to swarm him with guilt, but if they hurt you in the process? He didn’t know how to handle that in a ‘congressman’ fashion, only in a Winter Soldier-like fashion, and he had a feeling that was what whoever took you wanted.

But, God, he was angry and worried and couldn’t stop thinking about how bleak the world- his world- would be without you in it or if that traumatizing event bled the optimism right out of you.

“I think I got something!” Joaquin shouted, peaking around his monitor.

You were in shock; that was the only real way to describe it. A numbness coated your body, not even allowing panic to break through. You just felt nothing, which you weren’t sure was better or worse than panic, fear, and something even worse.

Binds cut into the skin of your wrist and ankles, holding your hands behind your back and legs together. The concrete floor was cold, pressed against your cheek, a conflicting temperature to the sweat on your trembling form.

You didn’t know where you were, and only half remember how you got there. From lazily dragging your eyes around as much of the place as you could without moving your head from where it rested on the ground, you knew you were in a room, dark with no windows, and all concrete. It smelled damp and old, and there was a door on the far side you knew had to be locked.

A part of you begged to try it away, to let yourself at least try to find a way out. But the numbness was debilitating, keeping you in place. You were scared that if you moved, the numbness would break and you’d feel the full surge of panic.

You hadn’t seen anyone, which was probably a good thing. Yet, you itched to know where the hell you were and who the hell took you. And why?

The questions replayed in your mind on a loop, again and again, until your thoughts were interrupted by sudden commotion coming from the other side of the door. The boom of voices intertwined with gunfire shattered the numbness and wrapped you up in a panic that bled into your bones.

You shook, heart beating so fast in your chest it was hard to breathe. Tears blurred your vision as you struggled to sit up, but crying irritated your bruised throat, only making you cry harder.

Once you were seated upright, you kicked your feet and pushed yourself back to the far side of the room until your back hit the wall.

The noise grew louder, getting closer to the door before it rattled.

Something between a sob and a scream tumbled from your lips as you struggled against the ties on your wrist. Each movement hurt, and something wet started to drip from your wrists down your hands, but you didn’t stop, trying desperately to get your hands free before whoever was on the other side of the door entered.

But the binds were too tight and refused to give away as someone broke through the door and stumbled inside, resulting in another, more guttural scream from you.

You were crying too hard to see much in the darkness of the room, terrified of what was going to happen to you.

However, instead of the long list of horrible things you expected to occur next, a soft voice said your name. Soft and familiar, you realized, as they said it again.

Blinking back some of your tears, you cleared your vision just enough to see a head of black hair and baby blue eyes come level with your eyesight.

“B-Bucky?” you croaked out.

He nodded, close enough in front of you to touch, but his hands remained at his sides as he kneeled. “It’s me,” he said, reassuringly. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

You crumbled at his words, crying harder, but not because you were scared; you were relieved. He slowly reached out, setting a warm hand on your knee. “I’m going to cut your legs and hands free, okay?” He didn’t make a move until you nodded and tried your best to stay still as he pulled a knife from his pocket.

Bucky cut you loose, first your legs, then your hands. The second you hand control of your limbs again, you turned to face him with a tear-streaked face drenched in gratefulness, too. Without hesitation, you hooked your arms around his neck and pressed your face into his shoulder. To you, in that moment, he was the safest place. He had found you, came for you. He told you that you were safe, and you believed him without hesitation. Your thoughts were only solidified as his arms wrapped around you, firm yet carefully holding you.

After you had calmed down a little, Bucky had helped you out of the building, bidding a brief thank you and goodbye to Sam and Joaquin, who stayed behind to take care of the ex-Hydra operative who still had unfinished business with the Winter Soldier who lay dead in the warehouse. They wanted to ensure he was working alone and had no other tricks up his sleeve, allowing Bucky to accompany you back to your apartment.

Guilt chewed at Bucky as he took your spare key from your shaking hands and opened the door. The bruise around your neck was more prominent in the light of your apartment, molted reds and growing blues in clear hand prints. Dried blood circled your wrists like sick bracelets, and you hadn’t stopped shaking since he found you.

And it was his fault. Every mark on your body was his fault, and it made his stomach churn. You were only taken because you were close with him, and the ghost of his mistakes still clung to his shadows no matter how long he’d been fighting for the light and freedom from the Winter Soldier.

That part of him was rid from his mind, but not from the world. There were still people out there who either wanted the Winter Soldier to pay or to bring him back to do their bidding. Bucky could handle that, though, or he thought he could. But it had never dawned on him that they could use the few people he, Bucky Barnes, had grown close to as a weapon against him.

If he had known that, he never would have grown so fond of you, never wanted to have placed you in even the smallest amount of danger. And he should have known better, but he became too captivated in a life semi-normal- as normal as it would get for someone like him- to realize he still had skeletons clawing to get out of his closet.

He felt so guilty that it made him nauseous.

Bucky helped you onto the couch before he glanced around your kitchen, spotting a clean rag folded beside the sink. He soaked it in warm water before returning to you, kneeling in front of the couch.

Wordlessly, you gave him your hand and he, ever so carefully, cleaned up the dried blood from your wrists, muttered an apology each time flinched.

Once he was done, Bucky stood up and turned just slightly to step away, but you caught his wrist. There was a startling fear in your eyes, something that struck him violently, bringing even more of an ache to his gut. “Don’t leave,” you whispered, voice as shaky as the rest of your body.

God, Bucky didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want you to quit. He didn’t want to ever not see your bright and shining face every morning for as long as he could keep you around. But that wasn’t fair to you. It was selfish, and he had been proven just how selfish in one of the worst ways possible.

He gently squeezed your hand. “This…” he began, but trailed off, the words caught in his throat for a moment. “This was my fault.”

“What?” You didn’t let go of his hand, only held it tighter as if keeping him in place.

To the best of his ability, he explained, guilt weighing him down with each word so heavily he thought he’d fall right through the floor. He knew you, and most people, knew of his past- the little ugly bits and pieces. And while the Winter Soldier was dead, there were people out there who would never accept that, going to measures as extreme as plucking the people he cared for off the street to add weight to Bucky’s conscious. He told you how your connection to him, despite it being nothing but a job, put you at risk, which he should have calculated.

He said he was sorry, maybe too many times, but it couldn’t make up for the tremble in your figure or bruises on your skin.

Your silence cut through him, hot but understandable. He had already started to picture his office without you, dark and too quiet. He had already started to picture his life without you, drab and cold. You were like the sun, and he was already saying goodbye, giving you up because not only could he not fathom ever putting you in danger again, but because there was no conceivable way you’d stay after that.

“Bucky,” you said his name too softly, he had to look away, distract himself with a spot on your wall. But then you said his name again and tugged on his hand that you, for some reason, were still holding.

“You found me,” you then said.

He shook his head. “You should’ve never needed to be found in the first place,” he countered.

“Would you still have looked for me if some random person who didn’t know you at all took me?”

Bucky looked at you, brows furrowed and confused. “Of course,” he answered like a reflex because he’d look for you no matter what or when or where.

Despite your puffy eyes and bruised neck, your lips quirked up in a small smile. “I don’t blame you, Bucky.”

“You should.” Because it was his fault.

But you shook your head and stood up, body unsteady as you clutched onto his hand before taking his other. “You found me, and I’d trust you to do it again.”

Bucky stared at you. He couldn’t understand the words you were saying. Trust was earned, and what had he done to earn yours?

You let go of his hands, and for a moment, he thought you had come to the same conclusion he had; he didn’t deserve it, not after what had just happened. But then you hugged him, holding tight with your head on his chest. His hands hovered, shaking just slightly, before he hugged you back with such delicacy.

“I trust you,” you muttered into the fabric of his shirt. “But…” Bucky's breath hitched, expecting the next words from your mouth to confirm his own thoughts. “But I need you to trust me too.” He felt his heart tighten as tears started to dampen his shirt. “And I need you to stay, please.”

There was no world in which he could’ve said no to you in that moment. Not when you were crying and holding onto him.

With his heart drumming in his chest, and guilt retreating just enough to let him nod his head. It wouldn’t leave, not for a while anyway, but it released its hold enough for him to whisper, “I will.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel fanfic #congressman barnes #mcu #bucky barnes fanfiction #sam wilson #joaquin torres

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bumblesimagines · 4 months ago

Text

Headcanon:

Dating Misty Quigley

Request: Yes or No

Pronouns: They/Them/Theirs, GN!Reader

CW/TW: it's Misty fucking Quigley.

~~~

Misty Quigley is an... odd girl, for lack of a better word. While she's not considered a total social pariah like Natalie, she's not popular like Jackie or Shauna. Misty Quigley blends in the background. Misty Quigley goes unnoticed. Misty Quigley is another face in the crowd nobody glances twice at. She knows it. She desperately wants it to be different.

She's not quite a Yellowjacket, something she's reminded of whenever the team goes out to parties and she remains uninvited or when she pipes up with an idea and the girls exchange amused glances. Nobody takes her seriously and nobody really wants to be friends with her. Until you, (Y/N) Ibarra.

You scope out the classroom as classmates shuffle around desks to ask their friends if they'd like to partner up before someone else snatches them up. Your attention settles on your sister first and then slides further down the row of desks to the blonde sitting by her lonesome. Misty.

"Hey," Mari leaned her hip against your desk, her lips quirking up into a familiar grin that tells you her part of the project will end up on your lap if you agree. "You wanna partner up?"

"I don't know." You reply, more focused on the way Misty goes utterly ignored by everyone walking past her desk. She perks up the moment someone steps by only to slump back into her chair when they keep walking. "I think I'll ask Misty."

Mari makes a face immediately, her lip curling into barely disguised disgust. "Seriously?" Her eyes flicker to the girl. "You want to partner with four-eyes?"

"I feel bad for her." You shrug, curling your hand around the strap if your backpack as you stand up and sling it over your shoulder. "She seems... nice."

Mari arches a brow but throws her hands up. "It's your funeral." She mutters under her breath and spins on her heel to approach Akilah instead.

You slip through the tight spaces between desks and step over fallen backpacks until you reach the desk Misty always sits at each day without failure. She doesn't look up this time, probably expecting to be working alone as always. It's a little pitying.

"Hey, Quigley," You greet her, and her head shoots up so quickly that her glasses slide a little down her nose.

"H-Hey!" Her voice is a pitch higher than usual, and her wide, brown eyes sparkle with hope. She nudges her glasses back to their former place and smiles tentatively. "D-Do you need something?"

"I was, uh.. wondering if you had a partner yet? Mari's partnering with Akilah and David's out all week on that family emergency so.. I thought-"

"Absolutely!" Misty perks right up, her smile widening before she blinks and clears her throat, a little blush dusting over her freckled cheeks. "I mean, no, I don't have a partner. I'd love to work with you." She giggles sheepishly.

"Awesome."

Misty has a habit of latching onto anyone who shows her even the slightest bit of positive attention. She can't help it, she yearns for it. She lives for it. So, the moment you come out like a knight in shining armor, it's over. She develops a crush then and there.

Misty isn't great at socializing. She rambles quite a bit when she gets nervous, stammering and backtracking constantly while she fumbles to get a grip. This heightens around her crush. She wants so badly to be your friend, to keep your attention.

Of course, after the project is said and done, in her mind you're already her friend. I mean, why else have you stuck around so long? It couldn't be just for the grade, right? You even did your part of the project instead of coaxing her into doing everything like so many others have done! Obviously, you want to be her friend, right?

Once this assumption is locked in her head, she begins seeking you out. She learns your schedule, both school schedule and after school, so she can optimize as much time as possible. She's first out the door when classes end so she can walk beside you down the halls on the way to the next class. Don't worry if you see her pop up around your favorite hangout spots. She's just like that.

Misty can get just a smidge obsessive. She wants to learn everything about you: your favorite meals, your favorite bands, your favorite color, your favorite authors, everything. She wants to know how to appear interesting and appealing to you. This means occasionally badgering Mari, who definitely doesn't want to spend more than a second in her presence.

Mari isn't a fan of this bubbling friendship. She doesn't like Misty. She thinks she's a little weird freak like most people do. She's first to laugh at Misty's shortcomings or make a face when Misty says something she doesn't understand. It grates on Misty's nerves but for you, she'll put up with it forever if she has to.

Misty's a big people pleaser and more observant than people give her credit for. She'll immediately pick up if you're stressed or in a down mood and she'll want to remedy that asap. There is no other option. Be it getting you some sweets or cracking jokes that make no sense 'cause they're full of references you can't quite understand, she's doing everything she can to make you feel better.

Of course, Misty is a little... intense. When this intensity manifests with her emotions like jealousy or anger, it can make her act impulsive though she can be very meticulous about plans she forms on an impulse. God forbid she notices someone else flirting with you or hears about Mari wanting to set you up. It'll drive her crazy and when Misty gets crazy, people get hurt.

Misty isn't afraid to get her hands dirty or ruin someone's life. She'll form a plan to ensure you don't even consider the person she's jealous of, whether it's by sabotaging them or upright telling you 'rumors' she'd heard. Anything to make that person undesirable in your eyes. It's for your own good. Nobody will make you as happy as she can.

Of course, it's not hard being friends with Misty. She's generally pretty upbeat, caring, and she's always eager (and available) to spend time with you. She's always happy to listen to you talk about anything and everything, especially 'cause it lets her take mental notes of things you mention that she can look into later.

Eventually, however, she gets tired of waiting around for you to up and realize how much she's meant to be with you. Of course, Misty's more than happy to take matters into her own hands.

Misty watches you explore her bedroom from her spot on the bed, her fingertip tracing the thread of her thick, floral-patterned comforter. Her room was naturally tidy but she'd taken time to triple-check that there wasn't a single thing out of place when you agreed to come over.

All the good classics were propped up on display for you to look over and realize how smart she is. Most girls her age read the latest magazines or don't even read at all, but not her. She could whip out a quote from Allegory of the Cave or recite any line from the Iliad if you asked.

She fixed herself up a bit for you. She dabbled on a little baby pink lipstick and dusted her cheeks with a pale red powder. She wasn't an expert on applying makeup; she had no friends to teach her and she didn't feel like suffering humiliation by asking one of the Yellowjackets. Her bouncy curls were tied back into a low bun with frizzy strands framing her face.

Her palms smooth over the lavender sweater she's wearing before coming to rest over her washed-out jeans. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest, and she awaits your opinion while chewing on the inside of her cheek.

You finally turn toward her and smile sweetly, her nerves easing away at the mere sight of it. "I like it." You shrug and walk closer to the bed. "It's... homey."

Misty nearly puffs out her chest in pride but instead, she bashfully tucks away a strand behind her ear and gives a shy smile. "I'm glad you like it."

"What'd you want to talk about?" You ask and settle down on the edge of her bed, the mattress sinking slightly beneath your weight and the bedframe creaking softly.

"Oh, just.." Misty trails off, the words she'd carefully chosen for this very moment refusing to leave her tongue. She fiddles with her fingers. "Uhm, I was just.. uhm.. I was wondering if maybe you- you'd like to go, I don't know, out with me... somewhere... like the- the diner."

You blink at her. "We go to the diner all the time."

"Yeah, but- but.. I mean, like, as a- a date."

"Oh." You purse your lips a little, as if the idea of going on a date with her hadn't even occurred to you. She immediately wants to sink into the mattress. She can feel a desperate ramble coming on. "Okay."

"Okay?" It comes out breathless.

You shrug, looking a little amused. "Okay."

Misty is positively thrilled that you agreed to go out with her! She blabbers about having a date with anyone who engages with her (mostly teachers) and is practically on cloud nine leading up to the big day. She frets over her outfit a bit, messes with her hair until it's in a style she likes, and even manages to gather up the will to call Jackie for makeup advice. Jackie entertains her for the most part but Misty has a feeling Jackie doesn't fully believe she's got a date.

She gets real nervous about the date. She doesn't want to ruin it but she whispers some affirmations to herself beforehand to keep her mind straight. She tries not to be too overly Misty but she can't help it when you make her so comfortable. She appreciates that she doesn't have to hide her quirks or tone herself down.

Being in a relationship with Misty is... a whole different ballpark. She's clingy, clingier than before. Personal space? Never heard of her. PDA? Love it. She constantly wants to hold hands or lean against you or give you tight hugs.

Mari flips a lid when she first hears about it. She freaks. She doesn't want Misty fucking Quigley in her house! She doesn't want to be anywhere near her! She rationalizes that it's a pity relationship, something you're doing out of the kindness of your heart. It's what she tells anyone who asks, too.

Misty doesn't care what Mari thinks. She doesn't care about what anyone thinks. She's overjoyed that A) you are dating her and B) she finally gets to experience what she constantly hears about from other people. She's already planned how the wedding's going to go, fyi. She'll tolerate her future sister-in-law just for you.

Maybe a little surprisingly, Misty's almost the perfect girlfriend. Her obsession and desire to be wanted leave her trying and doing anything she thinks you'll like. Plus, she's made sure to know you like the back of her hand.

Every gift she gets you is something she knows you'll love, every time she goes out to eat with you she ensures the food is exactly how you like it, and every essay or homework paper is reviewed by her to make sure you get the best grade. She's practically every love language shoved into one. Just don't hurt her feelings too much. For your own sake.

Being intimate with Misty is... something. Once the idea of losing her virginity and being intimate with you gets put in her head, she's reading allll about it. Whether it's educational books and journals or straight-up dirty magazines, she's checking it out and keeping herself informed and prepared. When the time comes, she's likely the initiator and tries being subtle about it but it's not hard to pick up what she's putting down.

Misty can go for whatever and whenever you want because she's nearly always ready. She definitely reads about things that would make middle-aged folks turn bright red and immediately wants to try them all out, though she'll understand if you're apprehensive (if not a bit pouty over it). She's naturally curious and being the way she is, she wants to experience as much as possible to level the playing field with her and the other people at school. She wants to be able to say she's done things after spending half her life being the late bloomer.

Of course, she's overjoyed to hear your parents are forcing you to accompany Mari to Nationals. She'd been fretting about having to be away from you for so long (a week) and had already decided on ringing up your landline every time she could to check on you. But now, with you tagging along, all her worries washed away. Until the plane crashes in the wilderness and she's worried for a little while... until she realizes how much everyone is starting to appreciate her and her medical knowledge. Things are better now, aren't they? Surely, you wouldn't mind if she destroyed the flight recorder, right?

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occamstfs · 10 months ago

Text

Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all.

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace.

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake.

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself.

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning.

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault. Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right?

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it.

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him.

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates.

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord.

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate.

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model.

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow.

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

#male tf #racial change #mental change #masculinization #hair growth #muscle tf #reality change #cultural change #male transformation

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pupslimes · 4 months ago

Note

cock warming charlie while hes editing and he tells you to get up because he needs to use the bathroom but you dont let him so he just. yknow. muehehahehaheuhahahehha

-totally not red definitely absolutely 100 percent not red yeah not me i mean red not red at all its not red im not red uhhmm anyways pisses everywhere

everyone say yippee for piss porn! i can't call this baby's first piss porn but it is baby's first charlie piss porn. so. wrote this in like an hour because the prompt went crazyyyyy thank you definitely not red. cw for like. the lightest dubcon. otherwise u know what ur getting urself into

the rules of liquid and containers don't apply when the container is horny

You were roused from your half asleep state as Charlie groaned, his head knocking against the desk several times. "Babe. Holy fucking shit. I can't do this right now. I literally can't."

"Can you take a break?" You stretched your arms over your head, groaning quietly.

He sighed, slipping his head from his desk into his hands, groaning. "Noooooo. I have to stick to my stupid fucking upload schedule,"

"You made the upload schedule yourself right? Can't you just change the schedule?"

"This is my two million subscriber special, I have to put it out on time,"

"Can I help you? Is there anything I can do for you?" Charlie's eyes glinted slightly as they met yours.

"There is… uh… something you could do for me?" He gestured to his lap, cheeks flushing red. Charlie loved when you sat on his lap.

You smiled at him, sliding off the bed across the room and padding over to him, before slipping a leg over the chair, straddling his lap. You curled into his chest, burying your face in his neck. Your arms twined around his neck, and you cuddled into him. "Love you so much, baby,"

"Love you too, babe," he hummed into your ear. Soon enough, the clicking and occasional typing lulled you back into a drowsy, floaty space. Eventually, you felt his hips stirring beneath you, once, twice, three times.

"Char?" Your voice was thick with sleep.

"Sorry baby… ah…fuck," His hips snapped up against you, and you felt his hard cock graze against your clit.

"Ah!" You ground back down against him. When you were all hazy and tired like this, it was so much easier for him to turn you on, and he took advantage of it often. Especially on nights like these.

"Please? " He begged you, voice high and reedy. You untangled your fingers from around his neck, sliding your hands down his chest. He pressed a kiss into your forehead as your hands made his way to his waistband. Slipping down his boxers was easy, since he never wore anything else around the apartment when it was just the two of you.

He shifted his hips to help you pull them down, which only halfway helped. Making room for you to slip down his boxers was great, sure, but the fact that he basically rolled his hips into you as you were consistently getting more soaked? Not optimal. You fell into his chest after, a choked moan echoing in the small room. He let out a breathy laugh. "Sorry, darling,"

You groaned lightly, tapping the side of your fist against his collarbone like you were beating on him, before settling back into the warmth of your boy. "Wanna go back to sleep, honey?" His voice was silky smooth, wrapping into your already tired consciousness. You nodded slowly. Moving felt sticky now. He laughed again, just a tiny exhale against you. "Okay hun, lift your hips real quick," You made a confused noise, but complied easily. His hands immediately shot to your ass, helping lift you slightly. If he copped a feel while he did it, fingers massaging into your ass while gently spreading it open, it was something you could ignore.

What you couldn't ignore, though, was when the head of his cock pressed up against your hole. "Nnngh?" You were too tired to even form words at this point.

"Shhh, love," he began to press into you. "It's all going to be okay. Just let me… uhhh, ah!!… get inside and you can go back to sleep, yeah?" At your next sleepy nod, he pushed in further, slipping in with ease. "Fuck, you're wet. Sure you don't want me to just fuck you?" You giggled, shifting to get comfy, and he yelped before sighing down at you. A gentle slap landed on your ass as he settled back in. "Tease,"

It wasn't too often you cockwarmed Charlie. It had basically become a last resort for him when video editing was going awfully, and he used the privilege of it sparingly. It was important to him you knew he wasn't just using you as a sex toy, not that you really would have minded. But Charlie loved and cared about you enough that you let him get flushed and nervous about it every time he asked, reassured him through it that you loved him. Which was why today was so unique. As much as you wanted to be there for him, your exhausted mind just couldn't stay up this time. The warmth of his skin through his shirt felt like it seeped into your bones, and your fingers slowly stopped tracing patterns on his back and shoulders, and you slipped into the rest of your nap from earlier.

You awoke to uncomfortable shifting and the bounce of a leg, not enough to move the cock inside you, but enough to shake you. It wouldn't have mattered if he was moving anyways. Charlie had gone soft in the time it took him to edit the video. Your eyes fluttered open as you took in all the sensations flooding you as you made your way out from dreamland. "Mmmmmm," was all you could manage.

His eyes flicked down. "Oh! Hi baby," He seemed distracted and uncomfortable, and you immediately tried to rectify it with a kiss to his jawline. He relaxed a tiny fraction, but it didn't seem to be enough.

"You finish editing, Char?"

"Almost baby. But uh… I have to go,"

"Go where?" The confusion overtook you, bringing with it a light panic at the thought of moving from where you were. You were far too comfortable to move, and still so, so sleepy.

"Oh, no baby it's okay!" His hands rushed to your sides, petting gently. "I just mean to the bathroom,"

Oh. Okay. Well, that was better than whatever you were imagining. But still, you just felt so nice…

"No," You wrapped your arms back around his neck.

"Sweetheart, what do you mean no?" His voice held a stressed lilt.

"Too comfy," You wiggled your hips, settling in again.

Charlie groaned at the pressure you were now putting on his bladder. "Baby. I really gotta go,"

"Ten more minutes?" you pleaded.

"Baby, I'm not gonna make it ten minutes. I'm not gonna make it ten… ah! fuck!!…"

And that's when you felt it, a spurt of boiling hot liquid splashing inside of you. Oh shit.

"Sorry! Fuck I'm so sorry I'm so so sorry," Charlie groaned out. You felt every muscle in his body tense, and he leaned over you. It didn't stop though. In fact, it only seemed to make it worse. Piss flowed into you, feeling like Charlie was cumming, filling you up, but it didn't stop. You felt yourself filling up further and further, stomach starting to gently distend with the sheer amount. Fuck… how long had be been holding it? You found yourself not particularly…disliking the experience.

Soon, of course, you reached full. But that didn't mean that Charlie was done. Absolutely not. His stuttered apologies turned into gasps and groans, his hands digging into where they lay at your sides. It seemed like he was still trying to push out apologies, to push you off almost, although that wouldn't have helped anyone here. You pushed back into him. And that's when you felt something else.

The piss dripped out of you, running first directly onto Charlie's lap where you were sitting, soaking into his boxers. You were sitting in what was basically a puddle of Charlie's piss. The thin, flimsy fabric though, could only keep up for so long. The puddle grew underneath you, liquid pushing up against you. Piss ran over your clit, over your ass, over every sensitive spot between, and you couldn't help but moan at the sensation. You couldn't contain it any longer. It spilled out between the two of you, and you could hear it fucking dripping onto Charlie's desk mat below you. The sound made you clench, which only, obviously, squeezed out more piss.

Lost in the feelings, and Charlie's whimpered half apologies fading into the background, you lifted your hips, the result exactly what you were looking for. The piss inside you flowed out faster, and the drops on the mat turned into splashes. You felt the blood drain out of your head with excitement, cunt pounding with your pulse, clenching around Charlie's still soft cock. Settling back down, you tried to pull yourself together, chest heaving. It was hard, trying to calm yourself while looking down at the man under you. He was bright red and panting, piss having crept its way from your pussy to his shirt, staining the hem of it dark.

"Baby?" he called. Your hands played with the wet hem, unable to meet his eyes. "Baby, I'm so fucking sorry," His cock twitched in you. Fucking caught. You met his eyes.

"I don't think you are,"

Charlie somehow blushed redder, stammering out disjointed sentences while you felt him getting harder inside you. You took a huge chance and covered his mouth, dragging the edge of his shirt into your own. You closed your lips over the fabric and sucked, the unmistakable flavor of Charlie flooding your mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his cock basically sprang to life inside you. Best chance you ever took.

Ripping the shirt out and twisting it in your hand to pull him in, you took your hand off his mouth. Your gazes met again as he choked off a moan. "Charlie,"

"Yeah?"

"If you don't fuck me right now, I'll kill you,"

#pup growls #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle x you #charlie slimecicle smut #slimecicle smut #slimecicle x reader #here be piss #cw piss

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muntitled · 1 year ago

Text

𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬

Pairings: Fratboy!Sungchan x Shy!reader

Warnings: Language, Enemies to Lovers, Manipulation, Bully!Sungchan, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), Hate sex, Non/Con, Choking, Fingering, Size Kink, Massive Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Breeding, Choking, Spitting, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, Coercion

I needed bully smut, so I wrote bully smut. Also I'm ovulating so don't mind me.

To say you were tense was a grave understatement.

You were forced to sit through your lecture feeling absolutely haunted by the presence beside you. A class you would normally find yourself enjoying is suddenly marred by the stretch of shadow that is Sungchan.

Making comprehensive notes had proven to be difficult when you had to keep a peripheral gaze on the slouching figure seated on the shared desk beside you.

Everything about him vexed you absolutely: The stupid way he wore his snapback (reversed). How he slouched beside you, nearly dozing off on multiple occasions.

Most harrowing was the fact that Sungchan did not make any notes during the entire course of the lesson. In fact, his notebook remained closed. His laptop, untouched.

“Damn,” Sungchan croaks when the professor concludes the end of his incessant rant, “We done?” He asks, “already?”

You only hum in affirmation, keeping your head low as you gather your belongings.

Sungchan watches you scramble to pack up - scramble to get away from him - with unreadable expression.

“Hey, I need to ask you something.”

Your heart plummets when his hand makes contact with the notepad you were shoving into your backpack. You bite the inside of your cheek while your stomach plummets lower and lower.

“Actually, Sungchan… I kinda have somewhere to b-”

“Nah, you're good. It'll only take a few minutes,” he says, lightly tugging on the sleeve of your button-up to lower your butt back down to the chair. You watch with sullen eyes as the rest of your fellow students file out of the classroom.

Two of Sungchan's frat brothers eye you both suspiciously, but Sungchan only gives them a flick of the head in greeting as he leans in to whisper, “You know I don't bite, right?

You didn't care to calculate the validity of that statement because you knew everything this boy had to say was completely and wholeheartedly false. It was almost a marvel, the way he could aimlessly switch from terrorising you one moment to bathing you in unprovoked friendliness the next. It gave you a terrible case of whiplash. Before you're able to respond, however, your professor speaks up from the front of the class. The only other body in the room.

"I hope you plan on actually doing something about those grades this semester, Mr Jung.” Your professor says, eyeing you both through the windows of horn rimmed glasses, “I trust you understand the severity of your current predicament."

Sungchan leans back against his seat, regarding the teacher with a passiveness that made you sweat with nerves.

"Being suspended from basketball definitely sucked," Sungchan's jaw is tight when he speaks, so obviously vexed by the inquiries of your lecturer. "But I've got a secret weapon this semester, Prof," the boy says, slamming his basketball on the conjoined tables, enough to make you jump. "I'll be back on the court in no time."

The sound of your name slipping from your professor's mouth was enough to have you snapping your head up from the weathered pages of the book you had taken out a mere second ago. Sungchan watches, slyly enamoured by the way you sit up when addressing the teacher. The way you correct your spine and elongate your neck. Closing your book with a finger propped in between the pages so as not to lose your space while simultaneously lending the professor your optimal focus.

You were such a fucking prude.

"S-Sorry Sir?" You couldn't have heard him right.

There was absolutely no way.

"I assume you're the student Mr Jung is referring to?" Your professor seems oblivious to the way your face threatens to fall, but Sungchan catches it in the slight twitch of your left brow.

"Oh- I-" everything in you was screaming to send out an SOS signal. Your neck still hurt with the imprint of his palm from when he had terrorized you just a few hours ago... Willingly choosing to be put in a space with Jung Sungchan alone seemed like a viable death wish.

"She already agreed to help tutor me yesterday, actually?" Your heart plummets when the boy turns to face you. "Very admiral."

A wave of nausea washes over you and you try your damndest to just not fucking cry as he places a tentative hand on your thigh underneath the table. Everything in your being responseded negatively to this man. Everything perhaps except your eyes.

While you could not deny that he was the spawn of Satan, you couldn't deny that he had the biggest, most brightest, most kindest eyes you've ever seen.

And that was the fucked up part.

"You said it yourself," Sungchan shoots back at the professor as his nails sink into the sensitive, plush skin of your thighs, "She's the best of the best so I figured, only the best can get me back on that court,"

You wanted to cry. To break out into a blaze of uncontrollable hysteria. Anything at all that might convince your professor to get Jung Sungchan away from you. The tempest of emotions swirling inside, the humiliation, the vile, disgusting feelings that only make themselves known in the vulnerabilities of the AM's...

It all threatens to boil over like an abandoned pot left on an open stove.

Perhaps Sungchan notices the quiver in your lips.

"I trust you'll get started as soon as possible then?"

"We're getting started right now, actually," Sungchan says, peeling his eyes away from your bowed frame, just in time to catch your professor gathering his belongings by the desk, "Basketball season is just around the corner, so you know how it is,"

All his fingers are digging into you thigh now. You have to resort to biting down on the inside of your cheeks to avoid letting that torrid screech rip its way through your vocal cords.

"I'm very impressed by your work ethic, Mr Jung," your professor says, completely oblivious to the way your eyes widen at the sight of him filing his way out the classroom, "And a very special thank you to you, Miss L/N. This is incredibly admirable and something I most definitely will not forget,"

For the briefest moments, the sun peaks through the murky, heavy clouds and you're awash in not only the approval of your professor, but by the possibility that you were perhaps one step closer to making TA. It would undoubtedly look wonderful on your resume, and having a member of staff essentially vouch for you would be... fucking miraculous.

"Wipe the drool off your face, it's not very sexy," Sungchan's grumbles have you hurtling out of your daydreams and straight back down to earth where you're left abandoned in a lecture hall with the only person in the entire world you believed deserved death.

Sungchan's head is leaning back passively against the chair, his legs are spread and his hand has yet to leave your thigh.

You try to keep your voice remaining steady as you ask "How much work do you plan on putting in?" Your voice is dripping monotony and is ice cold, nothing at all like the lazy smile flitting across Sungchan's face as he watches you, still slouching like he couldn't give less of a shit.

"None." His words have you snapping your head towards him, eyes blazing with the signs of your very first tear growing pregnant in your tear ducts.

"Th-Thats impossible- you can't do that!"

"I can't do any of this shit," Sungchan snorts as he motions with his other hand towards the blackboard scribbled with details on Austomarixsm, your most recent study, and most daunting assignment.

"Sungchan I-" You exhale, completely and utterly dumbfounded, "Sungchan, I have my own work to do. I have school, a-and a part time job- I have my own assignments due- just the other day I fucking passed out from a stress migraine-"

The calluses of his palms rubbing against the inside of your thigh, momentarily bring you out of the reverie of your own self pity, “I'm sorry that happened to you, Angel,” he begins, in the most sickeningly sweet voice you've ever heard anyone utter to you, let alone a man you found so incredibly... attractive.

You're not immune to Sungchan's charms and that was perhaps, part of the problem. You feared that if it ever came down to it, you might fall on a fucking sword for him, “Just make sure you get my assignment done on time, yeah?”

Your eyes are focused on his hand. The size of it. The labyrinth of veins running the expanse of it. The way it's rubbing against your inner thigh with a dizzying mysticism.

All it takes is for the first tear to fall directly on his palm before you're lifting your head and murmering, “No.”

Sungchan's hand stops all movement on your thigh and for the first (but certainly not last) part of this evening, you're utterly, and completely filled with fear.

“Sorry?” he shakes his head, displaying that sunshine smile, “What did you say? I don't think I heard you right.”

“You heard me perfectly well,” you tip your head back in defiance, letting your nose raise higher than it's used to being. Finding that glimmer of confidence that lay wasting, like an old relic somehwere inside of you.

“I said n-”

His hand was encircled around your throat before you could even get the final word out and he is pushing your face down on the table with immense force. A dark shadow settles across him, only intensifying his glare.

You writhe underneath him but Sungchan's grip on the side of your face only doubles in force as he slowly rises from his chair, towering over your bent frame as he twitches his head a little to side.

“Come again?”

You're struggling to breath under the pressure of having your cheek pressed so completely against a flat surface and your limbs are shot with panic.

He's far bigger than you though, your movements mean absolutely nothing. “I couldn't hear you the first time, Angel, what did you say?” His shadow bleeds across your form, like an immense, horrible darkness and so you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that whatever this is, whatever that was about to be inflicted on you would disappear.

“I know I didn't just hear you say no to me, baby,” your limbs stop their idle protests when Sungchan's hand slithers up your skirt, “You're too good an angel to ever say no to me, right?” Your mouth is trembling as his words wash over the side of your face, “You're too fucking pathetic to say no to anyone.”

“Sungchan- please-”

“Please?” He asks, swiping his fingers past your underwear, “Please stop or Please carry on?” Your mind is completely overrun with both panic and a second, more sinister second feeling that you truly did not want to confront in a moment like this. All you wanted to focus on was escaping the iron grip, keeping your cheeks pushed against the desk, where a small puddle of drool had accumulated from your open mouth.

You writhe underneath him, valiantly trying to get his fingers away from you, but your movements only cause the first bit delecrable of friction against your cunt.

“That's it,” He whispers, “That's a good little slut,” Sungchan watches as you continue to push your cunt back against his fingers, subsequently raking the first moan out of your clogged throat.

“Look at you…” He marvels at the sight of you. How easily you've gotten wet for him despite being completely and wholeheartedly defiant just a moment before. Sungcham doesn't know whether to look at your pussy desperately trying to pleasure itself with his fingers, or your face, and those pretty half lidded eyes rolling to back of your head.

“You can't so no to anything, can you?” He finally pushes two digits in, immediately causing you to gasp underneath him, “You'll let anyone fuck this pussy raw, hm? Even me?” His words are enough to have you writing even more underneath him.

“F-Fuck you-” Sungchan buries his fingers inside of you, all too pleased to watch you attempt to stave off the pleasure coursing through your body. His cock is fucking aching at the sight and it only has him fingering you harder and faster.

“You're gonna cum on my fingers, yeah? You're gonna cum like the sick fucking slut you are?” Your body is racked with unbearable spasms as you're forced into your first orgasm. The room goes white and all you're consumed by is the feeling of Sungchan's massive fingers inside of you and your head still pressed to the side of the table. You're fucking back against his fingers and he watches, completely enamored with his mouth hanging limply open. He is utterly taken with the sight.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” the room spins and it takes a few seconds to notice you're not pressed against the desk anymore.

Now you're being pulled up and pushed with your ass against the desk while Sungchan towers over you, hurriedly fiddling with his belt as he glares down at you with monotonous lust. He doesn't smile. He doesn't crack any incessant jokes, he only grabs you by your neck and forces his hand in your mouth.

“Spit,” you do more than that. You gag around his fingers, until Sungchan is finally satisfied with the string of saliva when he slips his hand out.

“Watch,” his forces you to bow your head and watch him coat his aching red cock with your spit. He jerks himself off right in front of you, loving the way your eyes stay glued on his dick.

“You're such a dirty fucking slut, you know that?” He is saying it to himself at this point. Words drenched in arousal and uttered through clenched teeth, “You’re such a pretty fucking slut, aren't you, Princess?”

You can't stop your eyes from watching how he fucks himself, you can't bare to look away.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Your voice is hoarse and shaking,

“Are you asking me to fuck you?”

All it takes is one nod before he's pushing you backwards against the small table and forcing himself between your open legs. “Then I'll give you what you want,” he whispers before pushing himself inside of you, completely knocking the wind out of your lungs.

He's too big. Far too big, and you try to tell him this by pawing lamely at the lapels of his letterman.

“F-Fuck, this pussy is so fucking tight!” Sungchan rolls his head back and you stare up at him as if he were a God as he drags your hips towards his, fucking you completely dumb on his cock.

“Is this what you wanted, Angel? You wanted my dick inside you like a needy fucking slut.”

“Sungchan I'm c-cumming, FUCK-” Your orgasm quite literally sneaks up on you and it has you throwing your head back while Sungchan continues to fuck himself into you. He watches you writhe and scream and he feels you clench his dick impossibly tighter.

“F-Fuck you're gonna me me cum,” he whispers, causing the very familiar feeling of alarm to pour out of you. You struggle against him but Sungchan keeps his palm lpcked around your neck, keeping your body very much against his.

"S-Sungchan, please."

"Stop moving or im really gonna cum," you try to push him away but your movements only succeed in raking a broken moan out him.

"You can't cum inside! Fucking- Stop,"

Sungchan is completely caught in the throes of his own prgasm. You're not sure if he hears you at all through all his mumbling and moaning.

“Fuck, angel, you're gonna make me-” Sungchan's thrust grow incredibly sloppy and you nearly start crying until he guides himself out of you, spilling his seed all over your drenched cunt. "F-Fuck, I pulled put, see?" He's breathing heavily as he continues to milk out tye rest of his cum and your lips are quivering, "I pulled out, Angel, don't worry."

The palm across the side of your face is warm, almost disarming, "You'll help me out, right? You'll help me get back on the court." Your lips have yet to stop their horrible quivering, "I need your help, Angel. You know I do,"

#riize #riize x reader #riize x you #riize imagine #riize smut #sungchan x reader #sungchan x you #sungchan smut #sungchan fluff #sungchan #jung sungchan x reader #jung sungchan #jung sungchan smut

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fixyourwritinghabits · 5 months ago

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Hello. I realize this might be overly personal for this blog but I was wondering if you had any advice for my situation. I'm trying to get back into creative hobbies like drawing and writing and while I made some progress with drawing I've really struggled with writing. It's been about ten years. I struggled with my mental health a lot when I was younger and essentially let my depression/anxiety and ADHD destroy all my creative ability. Logically I know the answer is to just write and write badly, but I'm preemptively disappointed and upset that what I write will be. Well. Shit. Or that I'll never improve. Or that I have no idea what to write. And when I do have an idea what to write it's all just gone from my head the second I sit down to write. So. Er. I guess I'm wondering if you have any advice or resources for people like me? Thank you :)

When you're juggling various different Back-Stabbing Brain issues, various pieces of writing advice - getting up at 5pm, forcing yourself to do it, etc - just doesn't work. For me, it's been a struggle to figure out even in optimal situations, so you're not alone. For me, the following is what worked.

Figure out your peak writing time.

Unfortunately, in our capitalist hellscape, you may not be able to use that time to your advantage. My peak time is from 2pm-5pm, right in the middle of work and fades right when I get home. Not ideal. But I can use that knowledge to take advantage of that time on my free days, and I can strategically time my breaks to do some writing. Or just write while pretending to work. Not that I would ever confess to doing that.

Taking the time to figure out when your brain is most willing to work with you is also very helpful. My brain will not work for writing after 8pm. It can, however, still do the dishes. Forcing myself to put off chores so that I can write is super hard thanks to my ADHD (which hates chores until I need to do something else), but I can combat that by making goal lists, scheduling my writing time (with set alarms on my phone!) helps me manage that.

Change location.

I can't get a lot of work done at home. I've tried. I've moved my desk around, I've locked down my internet browsers when writing, I have ignored the way my cat stares holes into my back to try to write. My brain, though, knows that the bed is right over there, we've got that pile of books to read, and oh hey, Tasting History has a new video. Also my cat wants to steal my computer chair and then get constant pets while in said chair because she is a princess baby. It's a losing battle.

What does work for me? Dragging my work to the library. Finding a cafe with enough space and quiet music to get some stuff done. Breaking out a foldable desk on the porch so that there is a closeable barrier between me and my distractions (the cats hate this option).

Changing location is something that works for me. If you have limited options, build barriers between yourself and distractions. Pile stuff on the bed so that it's not easy to give in and lie down for "just a minute." Close doors. Bribe your cats (or your kids). Use a standing desk - shifting your position can help lock down some of the ansty need to be doing something (my chair-stealing cat is more than happy to help with this).

I know of one writer who only gets work done by locking herself in her bathroom, because it's just enough change of scene to get her thoughts to settle. I know another writer who can only get editing done sitting in his parked car. However wacky, trying different scenarios to get something to work can really help.

Find the right tools.

The only way I can draft is by hand. It sucks and I have carpal tunnel, but my brain cannot type words into a blank screen. I need a pile of messy papers that no one else can read to work from.

I'm also very particular about what I write with. I use Uni Power Tank pens from Japan (because they're the only damn pen I've found that doesn't smear my left-handed writing), and I cycle through different types of paper I exclusively work with. Right now it's Five Star Reinforced Filler Paper with the triangle holes, not the round ones.

I don't know why this works, it just does. I've changed up what I've used over time, but as long as I'm consistent and not trying to write a chapter using differently-sized paper (insert scream here), I can get it done. Test out different tools and find what fits for you.

Organization isn't helping? Embrace chaos.

Jeff VanderMeer wrote an entire series on post-it notes, napkins, and on the backs of old bills. I wouldn't recommend that, but if a little chaos gets the job done, then do it. Spread a story across several half-filled notebooks. Map dialogue using only flashcards. Instead of waiting to sit down to get work done, scribble away while on a bus or on the move (safely, of course). Use a speech-to-text app to talk out your writing. Sometimes the more tactile you can make writing, the more you can break up those barriers keeping you from writing.

Try out different things! You'll eventually find what works for you

#writing advice #writing tips #encouragement #writblr #tumblr mobile loves deleting my damn links

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interiorergonomics · 4 months ago

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Simplicity in Professional Office Design

Currently in the corporate world, simplicity in office design is becoming a defining factor for efficiency, focus, and brand identity. Taking a case for Dubai office furniture which businesses are intentionally leveraging for a luxurious yet functional workplace aesthetic. This make professional office spaces to shifting towards minimalistic yet impactful designs. The clean lines, neutral color palettes and uncluttered layouts…

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merakiui · 7 months ago

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Do you have any more fluffy Jade/ Floyd captivity thoughts for us? Particularly spending Christmas with either of them?

Thinking….. decorating your lab office for the holidays and the eels curiously watch you from where they lurk in their tanks, wondering what you’re doing with all of the pretty, shiny things. They wonder if this is like the human equivalent of a nest or a grotto and you’re preparing it specifically for them. If that’s the case, they’re very intrigued by your interior decorating. You’ve certainly caught their eyes. If this was the sea, all of those lights would definitely attract all kinds of mers…even predators.

You string garland and cheap strands of lights around your desk. You even brought in a small tree to hang all kinds of decorations and ornaments on. The eels are absolutely enamored when you plug in the lights and they brighten up the space with holiday cheer. Quite a festive nest you’ve made for yourself.

When you check in on them later that evening, just as you’re getting ready to leave, you notice they’re both glowing—bioluminescence cutting strips of light through the gloom. This is notably brighter than their usual glow. You wonder what it means because their tank is kept at optimal temperatures for deep-sea mers, so there should be no need for them to be in season. That’s not until early spring, if all the data you’ve collected on them is anything to go by, and there aren’t any mates nearby. Strange. Maybe they’re mimicking the lights?

Alternatively, imagine you’ve been playing nothing but Christmas music while you work to get into the holiday spirit, and the next time you see them they’re both trying to imitate the songs they’ve heard with musical clicks and calls. :D two eels attempting to serenade you with Christmas music they’ve picked up over the month you’ve been playing it!! <3 and of course when they learn this is the season of giving gifts they’re quick to act, fastening the bones from their meals into cute shapes and tools for you. You are their favorite lab coat, after all~ of course it’s a much more intimate gesture coming from them, but you might not immediately understand that. :)

#twisted chit chat

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miirily · 29 days ago

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The Last Bright Thing

Synopsis — Satoru Gojo considers himself a patient man. But then you arrive at Jujutsu High, all light, laughter and chaos, slipping effortlessly into the spaces between his tightly held walls. As seasons shift and tragedy strikes, you remain a quiet constant—until even you begin to fade, packing away memories and brightness he never knew he needed.

Word count — 4.5k

Satoru Gojo deemed himself to be a somewhat patient person.

Sure, that patience thinned to a string when the higher-ups of Jujutsu High started spewing their usual cryptic nonsense, or when he was forced to clean up the messes of lesser sorcerers who thought curses were polite enough to wait for backup. But overall, he believed himself to be tolerably composed. Grounded. Enlightened, even.

That is, until you arrived.

It was autumn in his second year, the skies over Tokyo a pale grey that looked like it had given up on being interesting. Yu Haibara and Kento Nanami had just begun their first year in spring, wide-eyed and eager, brimming with that particular brand of optimism only the young and tragically uninformed possess.

And then you appeared.

A lateral entrant. A transfer. A technicality.

He remembered Shoko mentioning it in passing one lazy afternoon at the 7-Eleven around the corner of Jujutsu High, nursing a melon soda and half-asleep. “I think I have a cousin or something transferring in. Second cousin? No—cousin twice removed. Weird family tree. You'll see.”

He hadn’t listened. He should have.

Because when you did arrive, smiling like the world had done nothing wrong to you, glitter dust on your sleeves like you'd rolled in fairy lights, talking too fast and too brightly for someone entering a cursed profession, Satoru's patience began to unravel like a badly tied blindfold.

And worse?

You immediately, effortlessly, made yourself at home with his friends.

Yu adored you, because of course he did. You laughed at his jokes, even the ones that didn’t deserve it. You complimented Kento’s outfits, even though Satoru had always thought he looked like a tax accountant with a vendetta. And Shoko, that traitor, actually smiled around you, genuine, amused, almost fondly.

You were glitter and warmth and unfiltered chaos wrapped in a uniform you wore too casually, and somehow, against every law of logic and sorcery, you slotted into Satoru's tightly woven circle like you'd always been there.

He was still trying to decide how he felt about that.

Well.

No, that was a lie.

He knew exactly how he felt. He just didn’t have the patience to deal with it.

Satoru Gojo still deemed himself to be a patient person.

Even when you bullied (yes, bullied, there was no other word for it) everyone into helping you decorate the bleak, cold classrooms with Christmas lights, paper snowflakes, and an unsettling number of miniature Santas that glared down from the top shelves like tiny red assassins. Yu was ecstatic about the entire ordeal, obviously. Kento helped begrudgingly, muttering about productivity and aesthetics, while Shoko just leaned against the doorframe with her cigarette and a rare, amused glint in her eyes. Suguru actually hung tinsel like he was enjoying himself and Satoru…

Satoru watched you balance precariously on a desk chair, arm outstretched to reach the highest point on the bulletin board, humming some carol off-key, and thought to himself:

I am still patient.

Even when New Year’s rolled in and you insisted they all light sparklers together on the rooftop, breath fogging in the cold, your laughter echoing like a celebration in itself. You and Yu huddled under a ridiculously long, obnoxiously thick scarf, bright yellow with little sheep on it, not that he had paid attention, sparklers fizzing in your gloved hands. Shoko sat nearby, flushed and tipsy, and when you pulled a small, secret bottle of sake from your jacket with a conspiratorial grin, she didn’t even hesitate. Satoru watched the two of you giggle as if you’d won the universe.

And still, he thought, as he sat there, sparkler burning slowly in hand:

I am patient.

Even when spring came and your laughter began to ring more often alongside Suguru’s. Satoru would walk into the common room to find the two of you curled on the couch—Suguru calm and composed, book in hand, while you draped yourself over him with a dramatic sigh, pouting because he wouldn’t read aloud. He never did that with anyone. But somehow with you, it didn’t seem out of place. You’d tease, and he’d roll his eyes and hide a smirk behind the pages. It should’ve been annoying. Probably was annoying.

And yet.

Satoru told himself: Still patient.

But your eyes, those big, light brown eyes with lashes that looked like they belonged in a shoujo manga panel, lingered.

Even when you laughed at Suguru’s dry sarcasm, or ruffled Yu’s hair, or looped arms with Shoko as you skipped down the hall in some shared joke, those eyes always drifted back to him.

Like you were waiting. Like there was something you wanted to say, but hadn’t. Not yet.

It was maddening in the way things just out of reach tend to be. Not enough to call it hope. Not enough to chase. But there.

And Satoru, full of bright eyes and brighter power, the strongest of them all, sat with that feeling gnawing quietly in the corners of his heart.

Still patient. Mostly.

Satoru didn’t even know why your presence bothered him that much.

It wasn’t like you were incompetent. Far from it, you weren’t some damsel in distress, clutching a charm and waiting for someone stronger to swoop in. You could handle yourself. You moved through cursed energy with surprising finesse for someone who looked like they'd wandered off the set of a magical girl anime. And annoyingly, you were funny, not ha-ha-funny like Yu or bitingly dry like Suguru, but that kind of low, observant humour that made people want to listen to your stories. Even when they were dumb. Especially when they were dumb.

He’d tried to ignore it. At first.

But it grated at him, how effortlessly you fit in. Like puzzle pieces were always meant to bend around your shape. You laughed too easily. Got away with too much. When you and Shoko sauntered into training fifteen minutes late, hair still damp from the soft drizzle outside or probably from sharing a can of beer in the nurse’s office again, Yaga didn’t scold you. Not really. Just gave you that half-annoyed, half-indulgent sigh he never spared for Satoru. If he were fifteen minutes late, Yaga would have rearranged his soul.

You broke the rules with a smile and walked away untouched.

He hated it.

But what he hated most, the kind of hate that simmered and coiled in places he didn’t like looking into too long, was how close you were with Suguru.

How easily your hand would find the fold of Suguru’s sleeve as you leaned in to whisper something, your lips curving mischievously at whatever dumb joke you shared. How Suguru, who never let anyone in too far, let you in. No walls. No caution. Just that quiet fondness in the way he allowed you to pull his hair into tiny braids when you were bored, or how his hand rested lightly on your back when the group moved through crowds.

But it wasn’t even that.

It was the way your eyes, those light brown eyes framed in lashes that shouldn’t be legal, kept flicking across the room. Toward him.

Always toward him.

Like you were checking.

Like you wanted him to see it. You on Suguru’s arm. Your laugh tucked into someone else’s silence. Your joy claimed by people who weren’t him.

At first, he told himself it was paranoia. That you weren’t doing anything on purpose. That he was imagining things because he was tired or annoyed or—

But then he caught you.

Across the training field, Suguru beside you, your hands moving animatedly as you explained something that made Yu double over in laughter. You looked relaxed. Happy. But your eyes slid to his again, locked with his for the briefest second.

And there it was.

A glint. A question. A dare.

That was the moment Satoru stopped deeming himself a patient person. Because the second he realised that he was watching, that he had always been watching, was the moment it all cracked wide open.

Satoru Gojo no longer deemed himself to be a patient person.

That illusion shattered in his third year at Jujutsu High, the summer everything went to shit.

It began with Riko Amanai.

She had smiled, laughed with them, joked about dumb teenage things that should’ve been beneath her burden as the Star Plasma Vessel. And Satoru, in all his brilliance and arrogance, had believed, truly believed, that he could protect her. That with his strength, with his cursed techniques and his pride, he could bend the world to his will.

But Toji Fushiguro had reminded him that power was never enough. That arrogance would cost lives. That being strong didn’t make him invincible.

Satoru hadn’t been able to save her.

And something inside him broke.

But the world didn’t pause to mourn with him. Time, cruel and uncaring, marched forward and with it, more tragedy.

Yu Haibara went on a mission that summer. All bright smiles and terrible jokes, nudging Kento in the ribs and teasing you about the way you kept stealing his snacks. You had waved him off, laughing, promising something ridiculous like a group picnic when he got back.

He didn’t come back.

Yu died on that mission, suddenly, pointlessly, like someone had snuffed out a candle in the middle of a joke. Kento returned bloodied and silent, carrying the weight of it like a curse on his back.

And you… you shattered in a different way. Not loudly. Not like Satoru. You just quieted. There were no more ridiculous fairy lights in the summer, no more glitter stuck to your sleeves. You spent more time tucked into corners with Shoko or sitting silently beside Suguru with your chin resting on your arms, eyes distant.

But you were still there.

Trying. Waiting. Hoping.

Satoru wasn’t.

He distanced himself from everything and everyone. From Shoko’s tired eyes. From Kento’s quiet anger. From the heavy silence of Yu’s absence. From you—especially you. He avoided the way you lingered by the training field after hours, eyes searching. He ignored the way your fingers would twitch like you wanted to reach for him but didn’t dare. He shoved everything into the pit where guilt and grief turned into something colder. Sharper.

And in the void he left, something festered.

Suguru changed.

Not all at once. Not obviously. It crept in with the quiet: the long silences, the deep furrows in his brow, the way his gaze drifted toward crowds of non-sorcerers with something unreadable in it. Satoru missed it, too wrapped in his own spiral, too consumed by his failure to notice that Suguru’s world was shifting under his feet.

Then came the village.

More than a hundred lives snuffed out in a blink. Men, women, children. No cursed spirits, no violent uprising, just blood and silence and a justification that made Satoru’s skin crawl.

He had looked at his best friend, the boy who braided hair when you asked him to, who had rolled his eyes at Yu’s jokes but never told him to stop, who had once told Satoru they existed to protect people, and didn’t recognise him anymore.

And Suguru had meant to do it all. In a sick, twisted way that Satoru couldn’t comprehend, he meant it. And in that moment, Satoru stopped pretending patience could fix anything.

He wasn’t patient. He wasn’t merciful. He wasn’t the boy who believed strength alone could save the world.

He was just tired.

And somewhere across that summer, you had stopped looking at him like you were waiting.

Now, you looked at him like you were mourning something that hadn’t even died yet.

Satoru Gojo no longer deemed himself to be a patient person.

And maybe, if he were being honest, for once, if he peeled back the layers of ego and bravado, he never had been.

Maybe patience had just been another illusion, like the belief that power was protection, or that friends stayed, or that goodness alone could anchor someone like Suguru to the world.

Because now, Jujutsu High was quiet. Too quiet.

Autumn had come and gone, brushing through the courtyard with its amber leaves and rust-red skies, and no one laughed in the classrooms anymore. No one strung up lights, no one smuggled in cheap sake or dragged Shoko into helping glue paper snowflakes to the walls. There were no sparklers lit on the rooftop. No Yu chasing Kento down the hallway with an egg sandwich. No you, hollering across the courtyard for Satoru to help you hang a goddamn Santa, Satoru, you’re the only one tall enough, and no I will not beg.

Winter came like a stranger at a funeral—uninvited, unwelcome, and cold in all the places that mattered. Snow layered over the campus like an apology from a world that kept moving, indifferent to grief. The wind howled through empty hallways, whispering names that no one said out loud anymore.

And you…

You retreated.

Bit by bit, piece by glittering piece.

The loudness of you had dulled. No more bright ribbons in your hair. No more scribbled jokes in the margins of Yu’s old textbooks. Your laughter, once full-bellied and fearless, now came in soft, broken sighs like it cost too much to let the joy out.

You still walked beside Shoko in the mornings, but your steps were quieter now, measured and slow. You still joined the others in the common room sometimes, but you sat further away. Shoulders hunched. Eyes dulled.

Those light brown eyes, once glinting with some inside joke, some secret dare meant only for him, barely lifted now. And when they did meet his across the room, it wasn’t a challenge anymore.

It was grief.

And that… that infuriated Satoru more than anything you had ever done.

More than the glitter, the forced group hugs, the dumb snowmen you’d once taped to his door. More than the way you fit so easily into a world he’d thought was only big enough for himself and Suguru.

Because this version of you, this quiet, dimmed, ghost-of-you… you didn’t fight back.

You didn’t throw a snowball at his head and then pretend it had come from the trees. You didn’t elbow him in the ribs during sparring with a grin and a “Try keeping up, Six Eyes.” You didn’t make stupid faces at him from behind Suguru’s shoulder during meetings.

You barely even looked at him.

And he hated that he missed it.

He hated that he noticed how the sleeves of your uniform hung a little longer now, like your frame had shrunk to fit your grief. He hated that you still wore that stupid scarf Yu had given you, even though it had frayed at the ends. He hated that every time he wanted to say something, to break the silence, to tell you he saw you, all the words turned to ash on his tongue.

He hated that he didn’t know how to fix it. Or if he could fix it.

So he sat in the stillness. Let it crawl under his skin. Let it eat at him like it had eaten at Suguru.

And for the first time since he was a boy, since he learned what it meant to be powerful in a world that chewed up the weak, Satoru Gojo didn’t feel like the strongest.

He just felt alone.

Satoru Gojo no longer deemed himself to be a patient person.

Not when the silence had settled into the bones of Jujutsu High like rot. Not when laughter had become a foreign language. And especially not when he began hearing whispers.

It started innocently enough, just voices in the hallway, murmurs traded between first years or spilled in low conversation over tea. Words like Kyoto and transfer and her. Words that prickled under Satoru's skin like glass splinters. He dismissed them at first. Or tried to.

You wouldn't leave. That wasn’t how this worked. You belonged here. With them. Even if everything had broken, even if nothing looked the way it once had, even if he had pushed you all away, you didn’t just get to walk out of it.

But the whispers wouldn’t stop.

And patience, the fragile illusion he’d clung to like a weapon, shattered completely when he caught Utahime in the hallway during her visit from Kyoto.

He didn’t mean to grab her like that. Not really. But his hand shot out faster than his thoughts, fingers closing tightly around her wrist, blue eyes too bright and too frantic.

"Tell me it’s not true," he said, no preamble, no humour, nothing left but the raw edge of need. “You’re not really taking her.”

Utahime’s eyes had widened for a second and then narrowed into a sharp, unforgiving glower as she yanked her arm free. Then she had turned on her heel without a word and disappeared around the corner, the echo of her boots a quiet, final punctuation.

That night, after graduation, he wandered the halls of the dorms with a sick weight in his chest. He told himself he wasn’t looking for anything. That it didn’t matter. That it was none of his business.

But his feet betrayed him. They always did now, when it came to you.

Your door was cracked open.

Inside, the lights were dim, casting a soft golden hue on everything you touched. Your suitcase was open, clothes folded with surgical precision. There was a kind of finality to it, a calm that felt like grief. On your bed, your Jujutsu High uniform lay folded, clean, neat and untouched.

Your hands moved automatically, but your eyes…

They flicked up. Met his. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

Satoru stared at the suitcase, then the uniform, then back at you, something thick and unfamiliar twisting in his chest. You weren’t crying. You weren’t angry. You weren’t loud.

You were just… leaving.

“You’re really doing it,” he said at last, voice low and flat. “You’re transferring.”

You tilted your head slightly, that same practised calm in your expression, the kind that wasn’t real, not on you.

“Kyoto’s offering a new apprenticeship track. More focused mentorship. Yaga approved it.”

He hated how your voice sounded now. Measured. Careful. Like you were explaining the weather.

“You didn’t tell me.”

You gave a soft, humourless laugh. “We haven’t talked in months, Satoru.”

That stung. Sharp and fast.

Still, he stood there, fists clenched at his sides, biting back everything he wanted to say. That you weren’t supposed to go. That you were supposed to stay. That despite everything, despite Suguru, despite Yu, despite his own distance and failures, you were the last bright thing in this place, even dimmed.

He could barely force out the words.

“Is this because of me?”

You blinked, slowly. Then looked down at the scarf folded in your lap—Yu’s scarf.

“No,” you said, gently. Then, after a pause: “Not just.”

And that was the worst answer he could’ve gotten. Because it meant yes, and more, and too late.

Satoru didn’t speak again.

He stood there a moment longer, watching you zip your suitcase closed, watching you pick up the only light left in this crumbling place and tuck it away. He stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched, as you moved, slow and deliberate, towards the pinboard above your desk.

The soft zip of your suitcase closing still rang in his ears, sharp and final, like a door shutting behind a memory. You didn’t even hesitate as your fingers reached up to the corner of the board and peeled away the first note.

A pale pink post-it with a scribbled heart and “Don’t forget to smile today :)” written in Shoko’s crooked handwriting.

Then another—“Yu says you snore. He’s wrong. It’s cute.”

One by one, the small, ridiculous affirmations disappeared into the shoebox sitting on your desk. Words that had once fluttered like confetti around the dorms, stuck to people’s backs, hidden in textbooks, pressed between tea packets in the kitchen drawers. Your words.

Then came the polaroids.

You were careful with them. Gentle. Suguru in the spring, cherry blossoms caught in his hair. You and Shoko holding up peace signs with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Yu beaming, arms flung around Kento’s neck while Kento looked half-amused, half-exasperated. And Satoru, him, with his sunglasses halfway up and a flash of surprise in his eyes, snapped off guard in the middle of some snarky comment you must have thought was funny enough to capture forever.

All those seasons. All that laughter. Each one a sliver of a time that no longer existed.

You packed it all away.

And something broke.

Satoru’s fists curled so tightly his nails dug crescents into his palms. His throat burned. He didn’t know if it was the sadness, or the rage, or the sheer helplessness of watching you erase yourself from this place like you’d never been here at all.

His voice came out rough, low, a hiss of something feral.

“That’s not fair.”

You didn’t stop, but you stilled, fingers hovering just above a final photo.

“You can’t just—” He exhaled hard, forcing himself to stay standing, to not tear the words out of the air. “You can’t just walk into our lives, my life, like that. Like a storm. Glitter and sparklers and goddamn snowmen. Mess everything up, make it bright, and then just… leave.”

Your fingers closed around the photo.

And finally, finally, your eyes lifted.

They were so quiet, those eyes. Still light brown, still framed in lashes too long to be fair. But dimmer. Weighed down. They didn’t sparkle. They didn’t tease. They hurt.

“I didn’t mean to mess anything up,” you said, voice soft, like you were afraid speaking any louder might shatter what was left. “I was just trying to help us all survive it.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Because maybe you had. Maybe you had been the only one who’d tried to keep them together, after Yu, after Riko, after Suguru. After him. Maybe that was what stung the most. The fact that you had fought so hard to keep the light alive, and he had let it go dim. Had watched it burn out from the shadows and never once reached for it.

“I don’t want to go,” you added, just barely above a whisper. “But I can’t stay where everything’s haunted. I don’t think you realise how many ghosts walk these halls.”

He did. Oh, he did.

And you were becoming one of them.

“Don’t,” he said and it came out before he could stop it, quiet and pleading in a way that Satoru Gojo wasn’t allowed to sound.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you stepped forward, reached into the box, and pulled out the polaroid of him, the one you’d taken before everything fell apart. You walked to the bed and set it gently on top of your old folded uniform.

Not packed away.

Not erased.

Just… left behind.

“I hope one day you get tired of being the strongest,” you murmured, voice trembling around the edges. “And let someone stay.”

Satoru Gojo no longer deemed himself to be a patient person.

Not when every inch of him screamed to do something, anything, before you walked out of his life like everyone else had.

Not when you were right there, standing with your back half-turned, your suitcase zipped, your goodbye already halfway out the door. Not when your scent still lingered in the air, that ridiculous mix of sunshine and glitter and some candy-sweet perfume he could never name but always recognised, always noticed when you walked into a room. Not when the polaroid of him sat like a weight on your neatly folded uniform, your final message not spoken but left.

So he did the one thing he hadn't done in years.

He moved.

One step, just one, and then he was there, grabbing the side of your neck with one hand, the motion both rough and reverent, his thumb brushing the soft skin just beneath your jaw as he pulled you to him. And then—

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not gentle. Not like a confession or a question or a fairytale.

It was desperate.

It was every unsaid word he’d locked away since the day you walked into his life with your wild laugh and your eyes too big and your heart too loud. It was every time he watched you smile at Suguru. Every time you looked at him across the room like you knew, like you were waiting. It was anger, and confusion, and fear, and all of the aching softness he’d never let himself feel because he didn’t know what the hell to do with it.

His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorise you, your taste, your breath, the small, broken whimper that slipped out when your lips parted for him like you’d been holding it in for years.

And you didn’t push him away. You let him in.

Arms snaked around his neck, fingers winding into his hair like muscle memory, like they’d always wanted to be there. You rose on your tiptoes, chest pressed flush against his, like if you could just reach a little higher, you’d never have to let go.

And gods, you tasted like everything he had convinced himself he didn’t need. Like safety and sunlight. Like the edge of something too good for someone like him.

You kissed like hope.

And he hated it. Loved it. Feared it.

Because you were everything he wasn’t. Everything he could never be. Bright and open and alive, even with a heart weighed down by too much loss.

He broke the kiss first, panting softly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath catching in his throat.

“You smell like glitter and candy and trouble,” he murmured, the edge of a laugh curling against the hoarse rasp in his voice, “and I think you’ve ruined me.”

You smiled.

Small. Real.

And for the first time in too long, something flickered behind your tired eyes.

Hope. Maybe. Or something just close enough.

“You deserve to be ruined a little,” you whispered, still close, hands splayed across his shoulders like you were grounding yourself in him. “You ruin everything else.”

That earned a breathy, humourless laugh from him and something in his chest cracked open at the honesty of it. You weren’t pulling punches. You never had. You’d always told him the truth, even when he hadn’t wanted to hear it.

And he wanted to kiss you again. Harder. Softer. Longer.

But instead, he stood there, holding you like you were the last real thing he had the strength to touch. He didn’t say don’t go. He didn’t say stay.

Because he knew you couldn’t. Not yet. And he wouldn’t make you choose between peace and him.

But he pressed one last kiss, slower this time, aching, against your lips, and whispered against your mouth:

“Don’t make Kyoto your forever.”

And he meant it. With everything he had left.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #jjk angst #jjk

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sirxaibs · 3 months ago

Text

Veritas Ratio HSR X Reader

“Stubborn, Stubborn, Stubborn.”

masterlist

You’re apart of the crew and an aspiring scientist. Though focusing in the forensics field to help out on missions.

📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. You hunched over a cluttered desk inside Herta’s Space Station, scribbling notes that looked more like deciphered codes than legible science. The quiet hum of machinery served as a backdrop to your forced concentration, punctuated every so often by the sharp scratch of a pen.

Dr. Veritas Ratio sat a few feet away, posture rigid, eyes sharp beneath a veil of bangs, hand flying across the pages of his own leather bound book like a man possessed.

This wasn’t what you imagined when you signed up to “shadow the renowned Dr. Ratio for advanced forensic learning.” You wanted to expand your skills, help the crew better on field missions because for some god forsaken reason, every time you stepped foot on a new planet, you were the one knee deep in clues, bodies, and mysteries no one asked for. It only made sense to sharpen your mind where it counted. days in and Dr. Ratio had barely acknowledged you unless he was critiquing your logic like a middle school science project.

Still, you tried again.

“So,” you started, voice casual, “when you said the neural pathways respond to stimulation, were you implying synaptic frequency increases even without cognitive awareness, or?”

“I was referring,” he interrupted at lightning speed, “to the involuntary oscillation of signal transmissions under external influence, something any second year biologist could tell you. Your phrasing was inaccurate, misleading, and honestly bordering on theoretical idiocy.”

You blinked, stunned into silence not because you were offended, but because his words were fired off like bullets from a gatling gun. You couldn’t even keep up enough to be offended. Still, you smiled, brows raised. “Right… of course. That’s what I meant. Totally.”

He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. Just kept writing. You sighed, staring at your notes and trying to find the motivation to continue copying something down about tissue decomposition in altered gravity conditions. But your thoughts were elsewhere specifically: “The brain is a muscle, my ass,” you thought bitterly. “This man is a stick in the mud.”

You tried once more, adjusting your chair just enough to glance at him. “Hey, uh… Ratio?” He didn’t stop writing. “I just wanted to let you know it’s my last day here. The Express is taking off tonight.”

He paused. Pen hovered in midair. For the first time in hours, he turned to look at you. “Then I suppose this is farewell,” he said evenly. “Any mind still desperate to learn more is worth a modicum of effort.” You blinked. That actually sounded… almost like a compliment? “But you remain, unfortunately, idiotic.”

There it was.

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “Thanks, I’ll take that as the most affectionate thing you’ve said all week.”

“There is no affection in scientific discourse,” he replied, already back to his book.

You exhaled hard through your nose. There’s no pleasing this man. Still, you gathered your things, slung your bag over your shoulder, and gave him a nod. “Appreciate the time. Really. Maybe next time, I’ll come back knowing enough to offend you less.”

Ratio didn’t look up. “Unlikely, but your optimism is statistically entertaining.”

You paused at the door and gave one last look over your shoulder. No goodbye. Just the steady scratch of pen on paper. Annoying. Insufferable. Condescending. You had plenty of normal conversations with Ruan Mei, Screwllum, even Herta who could be a little unhinged but at least talked like a human being. you couldn’t say you didn’t learn something. Even if you wanted to shove him into a simulation chamber and press “random.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the lab, muttering to yourself, “The man needs a personality transplant. Or at least a nap.” Time to go back to the Astral Express. Hopefully, without being called an idiot in five different academic dialects.

📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. Dr. Veritas Ratio stood alone in the silence of Herta’s Space Station lab, the ambient hum of machinery now a mere background to his thoughts. The room still carried the faint trace of your presence a slightly skewed chair, a half empty data pad left untouched, a worn notebook you used with mismatched doodles and scientific scribbles alike. He stared at the door for longer than he intended after you had left.

“Hmph.” His voice echoed softly in the quiet room, as if irritated by his own lingering stillness.

With a sharp breath, he returned to his seat, flipping open the leather bound journal he had been writing in not his own research logs, but something far more… unwieldy.

A chronicle. An account. An observation. You. You, the girl who barged into his space several days ago claiming she was eager to “learn more about forensics” so she could stop playing amateur detective across the galaxy like some kind of self declared interstellar sleuth. The girl who stood there in front of him bright eyed, annoyingly persistent, armed with nothing but a notepad and a smile that dared him to reject her.

He should have said no. Really. He meant to.

Entry One:

She is insufferably stubborn.

From the moment she entered, she challenged my authority not with words, but with that relentless, aggravating optimism. It’s like trying to teach science to a golden retriever that insists on wagging its tail every time it gets a basic equation right.

She surrounds herself with the imbecile crew of the Astral Express each of them so charmingly flawed that one would need earplugs just to survive a conversation. She listens. She stares at equations like a brain dead dog. if puzzles are worth solving, and when she gets them wrong…

Ratio’s pen slowed for a second.

Entry Three:

I threw a book at her.

She botched a rudimentary breakdown of spatial decay honestly, I still don’t understand how someone confuses atomic diffusion rates with heat based deconstruction and I threw a book at her.

He tapped the end of the pen to the page.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t storm out. She laughed. Actually laughed. Rubbed the back of her head and said, “Should’ve known you’d have better aim than that,” before flipping back to her notes and reworking the entire equation.

Stubborn. Stubborn. Stubborn.

He underlined the word twice.

Entry Five:

She got something right today.

Not just right. Brilliant, actually. She identified a miscalculation in a gravitational bleed pattern I hadn’t even caught yet. I told her it was “adequate.” She beamed like I’d handed her a Nobel Prize.

Ratio exhaled slowly at the memory. There had been more moments like that. More times than he cared to admit where he’d look at her work and see genuine understanding growing like a slow, tenacious weed through cracked pavement.

She was undisciplined. A jumbled mess of deduction and instinct. But she was learning.

He flipped to the last few pages in the book, where neat bullet points were written in his precise hand. Not for himself. For her.

• You need to stop jumping to conclusions without sufficient data.

• Emotion clouds deduction. Maintain detachment until evidence is confirmed.

• Your spatial awareness is strong. Consider pursuing work in trajectory and motion based forensics.

• Your memory recall, while clumsy, is oddly adaptive. You seem to remember patterns more than facts use that.

• Stop doodling in the margins.

And then, written softer, smaller, like it embarrassed him:

• You are better than you think. Just… be better still.

He hadn’t meant to go into so much detail. It was just supposed to be notes. Brief, simple. A few guiding remarks she could use once she returned to playing Sherlock on alien planets. But the longer he spent around her, the more the book filled. He would’ve given it to her. That was the plan. Hand it off as a cold farewell and return to his own work, alone, uninterrupted.

But when she said she was leaving, a strange ache settled in his chest. He had closed the book instead. He told her she was idiotic. That was easier than saying anything else. He wasn’t built for sentiment.

But now, in the sterile quiet of the lab, he opened the book again and stared at the last empty page. His pen hovered for a moment before he wrote:

You were the most tolerable nuisance I’ve encountered.

He closed the book. Folded his arms. And sat there, in silence. Holding the only piece of you he could.

📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. The Astral Express had settled into its familiar rhythm a quiet lull between the catastrophe that just occurred. You sat in your room, sprawled on your back atop your bed, legs dangling off the side as a small packet of data chips and half doodled notes littered the floor beneath you. The lighting was dim, and soft music played in the background something March had been trying to get everyone into. Bubblegum pop something or other. You didn’t mind it.

Then, your terminal lit up with an incoming call.

Caller ID: Dr. Veritas Ratio

You blinked. Seriously? The last time you’d heard from Ratio was months ago, back when you’d finished your “training” with him at Herta’s Space Station. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t sent a single follow up. Hell, you figured he forgot you existed. Which was fine. He’d called you idiotic more times than you could count. You got the message.

So why the sudden contact? You leaned over, smacked the “Answer” button with your palm, and sat back again, letting the hologram flicker to life. The familiar sight of Ratio appeared sharply dressed, arms crossed, and already mid glare.

“Have all of you completely lost your minds?” he barked.

“Wow, no hello? You’ve really softened over the months,” you drawled, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a long yawn.

Ratio ignored the comment. “You brought it on board. A Stellaron. A living, breathing, ticking time bomb and you you let them install it into the crew roster like it’s a decorative lamp!”

“Not me,” you replied casually. “That was Himeko and Welt’s call. I was too busy teaching March how to tell the difference between a footprint and a crater.”

He leaned closer into the hologram, voice sharp as shattered glass. “And you didn’t stop them?”

You tilted your head, gaze flat. “Ratio, I’ve learned many things in my life. One of which is: you do not argue with Himeko unless you want to be questioning your own sexuality.”

“This is reckless. Irresponsible. Foolhardy. Welt Yang used to be logical.”

“He still is,” you said, picking at a thread in your blanket. “Realistically, this was the safest option.”

“Oh?” Ratio lifted a brow, sarcasm soaking every syllable. “Yes, why not keep the volatile Stellaron host onboard the most advanced dimensional train known to man? Surely the best place for a cosmic disaster seed is inside the space equivalent of a floating museum.”

“See? You do have a heart,” you said, smiling slightly. “You’re worried about us.”

“I’m worried about the structural integrity of your ship, and the illogical stupidity of a crew that includes people like well, like you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Ratio scowled. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

You rolled onto your side, cheek pressed to your pillow, gaze on the projection of his furious form pacing like a scientist on the edge of an aneurysm. “No, I am. I just also live on a train that is fully capable of going against the Antimatter Legion, hunted by robots, and now has an amnesiac walking stellar bomb with a winning smile and a personality March immediately adopted like a stray puppy. You’ll excuse me if I conserve my panic energy.”

Ratio paused, folding his arms. “You’ve grown bolder.”

“You called me idiotic for a week straight. I had to evolve or die.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly so softly you barely caught it he muttered

You blinked, eyebrows lifting. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Still. You would be wise to proceed with caution. The Stellaron may not act today or tomorrow, but entropy is inevitable. One misstep, and it could unravel every layer of existence you so casually nap on.”

You smiled lazily. “I missed your bedtime stories.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You called me.”

Ratio paused. For a flicker of a second, his expression shifted barely visible, like a crack in marble. Thoughtful. Frustrated. Maybe even… hesitant. “you have a brain. And I don’t like seeing it wasted.” He gestured vaguely in your direction. “You’re tolerable when you’re being cautious.”

“And you’re tolerable when you’re not actively trying to kill me with a migraine.”

The hologram began to glitch slightly signal fading as the Express entered another sector.

Ratio’s voice cut through one last time before the line ended: “Just don’t get comfortable. You may not always have time to brace for the explosion.”

Then the screen blinked to black. You sat there, the weight of his words hanging in the room like smoke.

“…Still didn’t say goodbye,” you murmured, grabbing your tea and taking a slow sip. You weren’t worried.

📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. Herta’s Space Station was bustling with its usual polite chaos researchers skittering around with datapads too big for their hands, drones zipping above heads, experiments sparking in sealed chambers. The scent of metal and burnt circuitry lingered faintly in the air. A strangely nostalgic aroma, really.

You had come here for one reason and one reason only: to visit Screwllum. The robotic genius had promised to show you a new forensic simulation model, one that could track theoretical blood spatter in zero gravity. You were deeply interested, and by “deeply interested,” you meant giddy like a child with a crime scene coloring book.

You weren’t expecting to see him. Not as you rounded the corner of the central archive, passing Herta’s projection arguing with itself, and almost bumped headfirst into a tall figure already ranting at a researcher over some miscalculation involving quantum probability flow.

“Dr. Ratio,” you breathed, blinking once.

He turned toward you slowly. You immediately put your hands over your mouth, gasped dramatically, and staggered back a step. If he gets to ghost you, why cant you have fun yourself?

“Veritas? Is it really you?” you cried, voice shaking like a widow in a play. “The universe said you were lost to the abyss of academia, never to be seen again! I we I waited so long!”

Ratio stared at you, expression unreadable but very much unimpressed. “You’re being absurd.”

“Absurdly in love,” you swooned, grabbing his arm with faux desperation. “I swore I’d wait, no matter how long the stars turned. You you arrogant bastard you came back.”

“Stop being ridiculous,” he replied flatly. “Ill have you know that if you even tried i would’ve answered. You were simply too busy pretending to be a detective on every rock you stumbled across.”

“not one letter. Not one call. Do you have any idea how I’ve suffered? Ive missed my stuck up asshole of a husband”

He raised an eyebrow. “You were messaging Screwllum memes less than twelve hours ago.”

You blinked. “Screwllum loves my memes. Don’t derail me trying to make you look like a bad husband.”

“I should’ve let you fail the entropy unit,” he muttered, brushing your hands off like you were a particularly annoying layer of dust.

You laughed, arms crossing over your chest. “Still as insufferable as ever, Ratio. You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

Ratio returned to his datapad. “If by ‘welcome’ you mean ‘tolerated,’ then yes. I remain consistent.”

There was a beat of silence. The usual static hum of the station pulsed around you. You tilted your head slightly, observing him not just as a former mentor or your favorite verbal sparring partner, but as someone you honestly missed.

You stepped a little closer, voice dropping. “Hey… could we catch up a bit?”

He paused. His fingers hovered over the datapad. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he looked at you out of the corner of his eye.

“why”

You smiled. “Ok big guy is asking the questions, I suppose I just want to see how you’re doing.”

Ratio’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk. “I suppose… some minds are worth the occasional recalibration.”

“Is that your way of saying ‘yes’?”

“It’s my way of saying you’re still stubborn and prone to foolishness but slightly less irritating than most of the imbeciles I suffer daily.”

You beamed. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Ratio glanced away, resuming his work. “Don’t get sentimental.”

But you saw the way his posture shifted less tense, a fraction more open.

📜🪶𓍢ִ໋🀦✎ᝰ. Ratio’s quarters were exactly what you expected and somehow even more Ratio than you thought possible.

Minimalist, sterile, everything arranged with sharp symmetry almost clinical, like the man had tried to recreate a science lab in the shape of a bedroom. The lighting was dim, a soft overhead hue that neither strained the eyes nor dared to be comforting. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls, but not a single one looked even slightly out of place. His desk had no dust, no loose wires, no snacks just data pads, models, papers arranged in brutal harmony. despite all the perfect order, there was something kind of… homey about it. Or maybe you were just losing your mind. Probably the latter.

“I’ll return shortly,” he said earlier, stepping out with a brief mention of fetching something from Screwllum or threatening Herta’s projection into silence you weren’t sure which. His voice was already vanishing down the hall as you nodded absently, too curious about seeing this inner sanctum of his to stop him.

Which is how you ended up alone in the room and your eyes landed on the book. You hadn’t seen it since your time as his reluctant partner slash student slash mental punching bag. Leather bound, its corners slightly worn, it sat there on the desk like it had been placed just for you to find it. An artifact of a past so recent it still itched under your skin. You told yourself to leave it alone. You didn’t. Fingers brushed the cover. You opened it.

The first few pages were filled with sharp, scathing commentary written in Ratio’s precise, aggressively legible handwriting. Your early days of working together where you barely kept up and made mistakes that, according to him, “required divine intervention to unsee.” You scoffed, flipping forward.

There were notes, not just about your blunders, but about what you’d done right. Diagrams you’d drawn that he’d annotated, not with insults, but improvement suggestions. Questions you’d asked that he’d praised though usually in the most begrudging tone imaginable.

You flipped further. Dates from after your training had ended appeared.

She let that walking disaster <Stelle> on board. Of course she did. Her loyalty to the crew is stronger than her self preservation. Idiotic.

…Though, if she’s the one monitoring it, perhaps there’s hope it won’t implode immediately.

Your brows lifted. Another entry, this time sloppier, less rigid:

Saw her solve a multi layer deduction test from Ruan Mei’s simulation. Beat the projection time by five minutes. Either she’s improving rapidly… or cheating. I doubt the latter. Annoying. Impressive.

And then:

You were the most tolerable nuisance I’ve encountered.

You stared at that line for a long time, blinking. Your heart gave the smallest traitorous flutter. Ratio? Writing that down? In his own personal notes? Voluntarily?

“Veritas Veritas Veritas,” you whispered, amused, letting the book rest gently on the desk again, “you’re so down bad and you don’t even know it.”

You glanced around the room with new eyes now. Not just a workspace. There were signs of you scattered in the margins things you’d said that he’d scribbled down verbatim, questions you’d asked, observations you’d made. There, in this sterile haven of knowledge, you existed. When the door slid open again with that same low mechanical hiss, you didn’t turn immediately. You kept your hands at your sides, innocent, as Ratio entered holding a datapad and a cup of something that definitely wasn’t coffee.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You moved things,” he said bluntly.

You turned, grinning. “I breathed in here. Hope that’s not too much.”

Ratio’s eyes zeroed in on the open book like a hawk spotting a wounded animal. The datapad in his hand made a dull thud as he dropped it to the desk beside you.

“You read it,” he said, voice low, clipped. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact delivered like an accusation.

You opened your mouth, but he was already moving, closing the book in one motion that was more violent than necessary. His eyes flicked to you, sharp with something between irritation and disbelief. “That book was for me. My documentation. My evaluations. Not for you to comb through like some sentimental schoolgirl with a crush.”

You just raised your hands a little in mock surrender. “Okay, first of all ow. Second, maybe don’t leave emotionally repressed love letters in plain sight if you don’t want them read.”

His scowl deepened. “You are not the center of my notes. You were a case study in irritating persistence.”

You smiled. “A tolerable nuisance, if I remember correctly.”

“I regret ever writing that.”

“You do not.”

Ratio looked like he was about to snap again, but your tone shifted before he could. A little more sincere this time. Less teasing.

“Look, before you combust into quantum dust or something, I’ve been doing the same thing. Kind of.”

That made him blink. His arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched.

You shrugged. “Whenever there was news. Whenever Screwllum or Herta mentioned something cool you did. Whenever you published something with Ruan Mei. I’d log it in a little virtual journal. Notes, quotes, observations. Even drew a diagram of your frustrated face once. It was very detailed.”

“You tracked my activity?” His voice was dry with disbelief.

“Kept tabs,” you corrected. “I mean, you did teach me how to observe patterns and record data. I thought it’d be fun to apply it to you.”

Ratio stared at you. Hard.

You grinned again, stepping closer now, just into his space, enough to make him instinctively stiffen. “So, if you like me so much, Veritas…” you tilted your head, voice dipping into a teasing lilt, “it doesn’t have to stay theoretical.”

The room went dead silent. Ratio’s eye twitched.

“I do not like you.”

You leaned back with a smug hum, hands slipping behind your back. “Sure. That’s why you wrote, ‘perhaps there’s hope it won’t implode immediately.’ About me and the crew.”

“That was in reference to the logistical risk of hosting a walking bomb, not an emotional attac—”

“You said impressive, Ratio.”

“I said annoying right before.”

You shrugged. “And still impressive.”

Ratio turned away from you, muttering curses under his breath in a tone too quiet to catch. But he didn’t tell you to leave. Didn’t shove you out or erase his notes or block access to his quarters. Instead, he sat, flipped open a new file on his datapad, and typed exactly three words

Emotional interference: persistent.

You laughed as you settled in across from him.

“Glad I’m still in your data set.”

#dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #veritas ratio #hsr veritas #veritas x reader #veritas ratio x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai sr #honaki sr #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr dr ratio #hsr drabbles #dr ratio x you #herta space station

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