#the gaze of a lover of all things...

[warriorprincesstramp]

that movie put me in such a good mood. damn I liked it a lot. fuck

[scribespirare]

I have complained often and loudly about how much I hate 'serial killer who only kills other killers/bad guys' romance novels but on god I found a good one??? And I think it's b/c they made this man so fucking pathetic I'm utterly obsessed with him

he's in love with his cop partner. he talks about other people like he's not human. he has a tragic backstory. he collects fingerprints (related to the aforementioned tragedy) of the people he's killed. he's often called himself and had the narrative refer to him as a dog on a chain b/c his bf asked him not to kill and he went 🥺 is that negotiable? no? okay ...😔 He likes to psychologically torture and blackmail his coworkers but they still love him anyways. when his bf pointed out that he was making friends he was so disgusted he thought about killing them. in order to hide from meeting his bfs parents for the first time he laid down on an autopsy table and asked the mortician (one of his accidental friends who enjoys torturing him back) to push him into the body fridge. when the mortician said that if he did he'd probably leave him there over night, Liam seriously considered doing it. on multiple occasions he has kneeled and wrapped his arms around his bfs legs while either a) having a breakdown, b) a dramatic moment worthy of any oscar, or c) both. He took a bullet for his bf. one time he laid down on the ground in the middle of nowhere b/c he had kidnapped a serial rapist and stuffed him in his trunk cause he was in a bad mood but then called his bf cause he felt guilty about potentially breaking his promise not to kill. and when his bf showed up scared shitless when he saw Liam on the ground, Liam casually asked if he wanted to stargaze while beside him his car rocked violently due to the man locked in the trunk. bf was not amused. Liam bought said bf an entire house after just a month of dating. He hates cats but adopted one b/c it made his bf happy. He will declare he will or won't do something, take one look at bfs upset face, and declare .3 seconds later to do the exact opposite and pretend he never had the first idea at all.

Im _obsessed_

[mw00nie]

before you and nanami started dating, you thought you had him all figured out.

quiet. composed. polite to a fault. the kind of man who holds the door open for strangers and tips too well. the kind of man who never interrupts, never forgets birthdays, never texts past ten unless it’s an emergency.

you thought you knew what kind of lover he’d be. careful. respectful. maybe even a little restrained.

you were so wrong.

because nanami kento is the definition of “gentleman in the streets and freak in the sheets.” not the loud kind. not the messy, aggressive kind. he doesn’t degrade. doesn’t spit unless you ask. doesn’t choke unless you beg. and even then, he makes you say please.

but he knows how to ruin you. with quiet control. with devastating precision.

he learns you like a language. reads you like scripture. he notices the smallest things. the shift in your breathing when his hand rests on your thigh, the way your hips tilt slightly when you want more. he catalogs it all. stores it away. and when you’re under him, you feel it. every inch of that studied, focused attention.

he fucks like he’s solving a problem he already knows the answer to. his fingers are experts. his mouth is lethal.

and the worst part? he says the filthiest things in the gentlest tone, like he’s giving a lecture. like it’s all just matter-of-fact.

“you’re soaking,” he’ll murmur, two fingers teasing your entrance. “i’ve barely touched you.”

“there it is,” he’ll say when he finds that spot inside you, the one that makes your back arch and your thighs tremble. “i thought so.” “you can take more, can’t you? i know you can.”

he never loses composure. he doesn’t need to. he’s in control, always. he’ll have you shaking, begging, gripping the sheets like you’re drowning, and he’ll still be fully clothed, sleeves rolled up, watch ticking on his wrist.

he praises you like it’s a prayer. “good girl. just like that.” “you’re being so patient for me.” “look at you. you’re so gorgeous when you fall apart.”

and when he finally fucks you, it’s deep and slow and ruthless in its restraint. like he’s savoring every drag, every clench, every sound you make. he doesn’t just chase his own pleasure. he chases yours. insists on it. he’ll edge you until you’re crying, then kiss the tears from your cheeks and ask, softly, “do you want to cum now?” as if he hasn’t earned the right to decide for you. as if it’s still your choice.

he’ll hold your face in one hand while he pushes into you, thumb resting at your jaw. not to grip. not to control. just to feel you. to anchor you.

you’ve never been so exposed. so undone. and he never rushes. never gets sloppy. even when he’s close, even when he’s quiet and tense and thrusting just a little harder, a little deeper. he still holds your gaze. still whispers, “breathe.” “you’re okay.” “i’ve got you.”

and when it’s over, when you’re limp and dazed and boneless beneath him, he pulls you into his chest and strokes your spine like you’re something delicate. something treasured. he doesn’t gloat. doesn’t tease. he just kisses your forehead and says, “you needed that.” like he planned it. like he’s known for days.

you thought you knew him. but the truth is, nanami’s the kind of man who thanks you after eating you out for half an hour, who ruins you with his hands and then helps you into the shower. he’ll say “may i?” like he’s asking permission to wreck your entire evening. and when you say yes, he will. completely. beautifully. quietly.a freak. but always polite. always in control. always him.

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: fic has been posted here <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

[danysdaughter]

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting. That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

[dxrk-red]

✦︎Sukuna x reader All yours.

"'Kuna?" "Hm?" "Are you comfortable with me?"

Sukuna and you had been seeing each other for the past 10 months. Ten. That should be enough for someone to know if a person likes them, right? Of course it should. That's 300 days. Yet whenever Sukuna was around you, every word, every touch felt calculated. Hesitant. You brushed it off for a while, thinking that it's just how this big burly man, with a staggering height and inked skin, is. But the small responses, the quick look aways were bothering you. And you needed to know. So you found yourself at your apartment, lounging around in the living room with Sukuna seated comfortably on the sofa. A respectable distance between you two. Too respectable for lovers. You tried to initiate proximity, sure, you did. But every time you scooted closer to show him a silly cat video, shoving the phone in his face, he would pull back slightly, glancing away. And these little incidents crept through your pretty mind, creating a turmoil, egging you on to ask the said question. Raising a brow, Sukuna looked at you from where he was sprawled out. Sharp eyes narrowing onto you as if to say, 'Where'd this come from?' But the thoughts of him not wanting you, no yearning for you like you did had seeped through and now you were conflicted. Was Sukuna really comfortable with you? "I mean-", you started, a small exhale leaving you. "...do you feel okay with me? Do you not like it when I'm too close to you? You keep looking away. You can tell me if you don't want to, y'know. I wanna make you feel safe-" "I like you." Woah, that was unexpected. Your brows raised up to your hairline, not used to such a statement by him. Sukuna showed he liked you: through small gifts, but not proximity, though never said it. These words changed things. A tinge of red bloomed across Sukuna's ears as he cleared his throat. He shied away, looking down at his lap. "I do feel comfortable with you, I just..." He grunted, a small frown gracing his lips. How could he tell you that he was shy? How could he tell you that he liked you so much more, that his brain fluctuated every time you smiled at him, that he had to look away to function properly? That every time you cooed at him, he had to physically restrain himself from the cuteness aggression and suppress his urges to squish you? Because the big, bad Sukuna never did that. A snort, then silence. You were trying to hold back a laugh, but you wanted him to talk. "Suku, are you shy?" You asked, smugly raising a brow. What a gremlin. Sukuna thought to himself affectionately. Scoffing, he turned his head away, arms crossed defensively. "Hell no.", he snarked but his pink face said otherwise. "Awwww, you're so cute." You shifted closer, causing Sukuna to tense up as your warm hands cupped his cheeks. Shit, he could melt. "You could have told me. And here I was, thinking you hate me or something.", you cooed. "Your stupid questions make me hate you." "You're sooooo cute." "I take my words back. Get off of me this instant." His hands circled your waist. He didn't hesitate, leaning into you. "Too late, mwah." You plant a kiss to his nose, making him turn red as you laugh with genuine amusement. Your lover was the sweetest thing ever. "Don't shy away from me, okay? I want you to feel free with me." That made Sukuna's eyes soften, longingly gazing into yours. A smile like that could ruin his life, and he'd let it. Because Sukuna knew you're the only one he'd ever be comfortable with.

First blog. Constructive criticism is welcome with open arms. I would appreciate any requests and prompts. I hope you like this just as much as this upgraded fire boy likes you. Thank you for reading. -Masterlist-

More of Sukuna.

[cosmictheo]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds

( gif credits to @springseventeen )

—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Bob.

He had been quite special since you had met him, really. 

Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.

But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him. 

How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.

Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.

And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.

“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.

Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.

You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.

Love.

Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.

You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.

He loved you.

“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.

A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.

It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.

To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.

“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.

Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.

“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”

You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”

Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.

“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”

“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.

“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”

“That doesn't even—”

Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”

“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.

Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.

You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.

“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.

The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips. 

He was wearing that beanie again. 

He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.

“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”

He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you. 

Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.

It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.

Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.

His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.

“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”

He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”

Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.

“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”

“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused. 

You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.

“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”

You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”

He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.

“It's just...”

This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.

You waited so patiently for him. As always.

“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.

You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby." 

He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.

Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.

“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”

“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”

“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.

Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.

Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.

But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.

“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”

“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”

Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”

“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”

Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.

“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.

You kissed him. 

And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.

His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.

Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.

“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.

You kissed him again. 

Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.

He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours. 

His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.

His whole being was made to love you.

Bob loved you.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....

His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time. 

Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.

His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.

“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”

“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”

Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.

“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.

Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.

“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”

You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.

“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”

You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him. 

And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.

He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.

“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.

You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.

“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.

He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”

You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.

“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”

The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.

His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.

The lights faded in and out again.

“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,

“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.

Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”

And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.  

Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.

“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.

Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.

“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”

He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.

“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.

Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”

“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.

He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”

He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.

“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”

“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”

His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.

“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.

Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.

“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.

You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”

Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”

“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”

“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”

He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.

But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.

Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”

John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”

Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”

You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.

You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.

“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.

“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.

“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.

Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.

[khioneee]

TAPPING OUT

synopsis. caleb graduates from the academy, but when you unexpectedly tap him out, a tradition where loved ones step forward to formally release a pilot from their duty, he realizes no achievement compares to having you by his side. (based on this.) word count. 1.1k an. loved doing this for codghost so i might as well do it for this man. lets pretend they have the tradition in their universe. okay? okay.

caleb stood in the crowd, his posture rigid and form still with precision despite the celebration around him. cheers echoed through the room, but they sounded distant, muffled. he watched as pilots, one by one, were tapped out by their loved ones. parents embracing their children, lovers reuniting in tearful hugs.

his chest tightened as his eyes scanned the room. he was waiting for gran, the one person he knew would come. gran had always shown up, had always been his anchor. he learnt not to expect anything more, not to hope for anyone else.

but then, like a shift in the universe, caleb felt you before he saw you.

when you stepped into the room, it was as if the entire world faded away. time slowed, the noise dimmed, and the lights seemed to soften, catching on the edges of your features. you looked beautiful, achingly so. heartbreakingly out of reach. you weren’t supposed to be here, not after the fight, not after the cruel words you’d both thrown at each other before he left.

you moved toward him with purpose, cutting through the room like you were meant to be there all along.

caleb couldn’t breathe. he couldn’t think.

his hands trembled at his sides as he watched you close the distance between you. he could act all stoic, but his heart didn’t feel stoic enough to make him calm.

when you stopped in front of him, there were tears already brimming in your eyes. his carefully constructed control, unshakable during training, steadfast through every grueling challenge, began to crumble.

caleb had faced impossible physical challenges, the grueling expectations of training, and the endless psychological evaluations that pushed him to the edge. but none of those had broken him nearly like you did. you, standing here, looking at him like that.

you were his undoing.

you should be his first sign. the first sign that there was something wrong with him. because you were his obsession. the one he was slowly losing control over.

caleb was not allowed to fall in love with you.

he trembled as your fingers brushed against his, tapping him out of his frozen misery. the soft touch was meant to symbolize recognition, acknowledgment. but to caleb, it was so much more.

you were here. you were real.

there was no second-guessing, no hesitation. before he could stop himself, his arms were around you, pulling you into him with a force that left him breathless. a strangled sigh escaped his lips and found its home in the crook of your neck, right where your heart beats: friends, friends, friends.

he held you like a man drowning, and you were the only thing keeping him afloat. he felt the soft shake of your shoulders, the warmth of your tears against his neck, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

‘i didn’t think you’d come,’ he whispered, his voice low and raw, breaking under the weight of his emotions. you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. there was something in his gaze, but before you could respond, he spoke again, quieter this time, like a vow. ‘i’ll never let you go.’

the words made you shiver. they were so soft you almost didn’t catch them.

‘you can try,’ you joked, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to lighten the mood. a nervous laugh escaped as you gently pushed against his chest, pretending to escape his embrace. ‘you love me, i get it.’

but caleb didn’t loosen his hold. instead, he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple. there was a quiet laugh, quiet and unsteady, before he murmured, ‘you have no idea, pipsqueak.’

his voice was filled with something raw, something deeper than you could fully understand. it wasn’t just love. it was obsession, devotion, a yearning that had no end.

you smelled like honey. like the same thing you’d been smelling your entire life that made you feel like home in a way that hotels and dorm beds could never manage.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, shining pin they’d given him for finishing aerospace academy. it gleamed in the light, a symbol of everything he’d fought to achieve. without a word, he placed it carefully in your palm.

your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the touch sent sparks up his arm. with careful, deliberate precision, you pinned it to his chest. caleb didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you, watching every motion, every soft touch of your fingers against his uniform.

‘they should give you a medal instead for doing so well,’ you teased softly, smiling up at him.

once the pin was secure, you smoothed down his uniform, your fingers lingering against the fabric. it was such a small gesture, but it felt so intimate that caleb’s breath hitched.

he tried his best not to be frantic, but it was almost impossible when he was overloaded with want, want, want, and with the feeling that this might not happen again, with the fear that if caleb thought about it too hard, he’d stop himself before he did too much.

he couldn’t stop himself any longer. leaning down, he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering on your skin. he didn’t move away immediately, letting the moment stretch as he closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of you.

he felt like a criminal on the run, but it was too good to withdraw from. so, he overdosed on unrequited love.

when he finally pulled back, there was a soft, almost shy smile on his lips. his voice was low, but full of meaning. ‘i already have my reward.’

you looked up at him, your cheeks warm, his cap still sitting crooked on your head. for a moment, neither of you spoke, and the weight of everything unsaid lingered between you.

and caleb, looking at you, standing there with your fingers still on his uniform, knew it was the absolute truth. you didn’t realize it, but you were the center of his universe. his greatest test, his deepest weakness, and the one thing he could never, ever let go of.

i’m a fool, he decided. damned in the bits of exhaustion at pulling and pushing at whatever’s left of trying.

the noise of the crowd finally broke through the haze, the sound of laughter and celebration pulling you both back to the present. caleb stepped back slightly, watching as you adjusted his cap, your smile soft but hesitant.

you didn’t have to know the struggle he’d endured to get here, the battles he’d fought within himself.

you were his obsession. his reason for everything. and he was losing control, but he didn’t care. because having you here, now, was all that mattered.

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

soft lover boy simon riley who is absolutely obsessed with his little bimbo birdie.

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ “big scary boyfriend simon riley” “guard dog simon riley” what about utterly pathetic soft lover boy simon riley who literally walks around with the biggest puppy eyes for you??

cw: age gap (legal), fluff, simon is a complete softie, oral (f) receiving, simon cums in his pants, inspired by @cinnamongrl2006

simon riley who listened just intently to your questions even if they were a little silly, not caring that he had to re explain everything ten times.

“so like, what does this do?” your perfectly manicured nails disgusting with the small knife that you found in his military bag. “use that for my missions, extra protection,” his strong arms wrapped around you as you stared at the knife like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“but like, why use knives when you have a gun?”

“sometimes i get disarmed, so i need to be prepared.”

you stared blankly, blinking at him before your gaze drifted down. “but you have two arms, so you haven’t been disarmed?” your question genuine as a low chuckle escaped his lips.

“yes luvie, i do have two arms.”

simon who will be at your feet the moment you asked for him.

“si?” your voice soft as you looked around your shared apartment, simon’s footsteps immediately picking up after hearing your voice. “what’s wrong luvie?” his tone soft before gently drifting down to your feet, where you were struggling to put on your heels. “help me?” your big doe eyes staring at him, soft smile cracking through his rugged face. without a response he lifted your foot up, gently placing your heel, making sure it was fit snuggly in. his large hand gently rubbed against your ankle, planting a kiss at your knee.

and of course he carried you in his arms after the function, your drunken giggles filling up the empty streets whilst he grinned like an idiot.

simon riley who indulged in your nightly routines, allowing you to put a face mask and a your pink fluffy head ban on with a bow.

“need to make sure you age well si, don’t want you to be all wrinkly when i’m still going to be hot and young,” you teased as you gently applied the sheet face mask on him.

simon was never one to indulge in skincare, he would often just splash water on his face and call it a day. the moment you found out you made him his own personal skincare routine, the products comically small in his hands as you explained them.

“this one helps with fine lines and wrinkles,” you rambled as you held a small shiny bottle, they all looked the same to him but he listened regardless. “you think i have wrinkles?”

simon riley who would have his whole entire camera roll dedicated to you.

“yer fuckin’ obsessed with that girl,” his captain teased as simon’s phone lit up from your spam of texts, his wallpaper a photo of you with the biggest and cheesiest grin.

“jus’ say you’re jealous cap,” simon grunted as he immediately grabbed his phone, his thick fingers moving along swiftly to respond. it was no secret in the base that simon was utterly smitten with you, responding to your calls and texts even in the most inconvenient times.

not to mention the amount of times he had to upgrade his phone simply because he had no storage left, and he couldn’t bring himself to delete the photos of you.

the distance between the two of you didn’t waved his commitment, even if he was in the base and you were back at home he would carry a little bit of you. it first started off as a small pink keychain that dangled from his vest, then a necklace with your into. he even wore a custom balaclava mask that you bought, with a pink skull instead of a black one. despite the relentless teasing from his captain and everyone else at the base he didn’t care.

simon treated having sex with you as a sacred ritual, worshipping every inch of your body as if he didn’t deserve to see you in your most vulnerable state.

“fuckin’ gorgeous luvie,” his voice soft and tended as he peppered your body with kisses, his scarred hamada soft and gentle unlike the usual violence they were used to.

he didnt care about his own pleasure, solely focusing on you, because if you felt good, so did he.

he loved worshipping you on his knees, his tongue lapping around your creamy pussy as his eyes almost rolled back from the smell of your arousal. “taste so fuckin’ good luvie, like a five star meal.” simon took his sweet time, making sure every part of your body received attention and love. his large hands gently rubbing your inner thighs to smooth your trembles as you came over and over again.

oh, and he would cum in his pants just from eating you out. his hips would shake involuntarily before spurting all over his boxers.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22

[kamitv]

▷ Seven — Explicit Ver.

Synopsis . JJK men fuckin' you right on Valentines day night. / Pairings . (Separate) Toji x f!reader, Nanami x f!reader, Gojo x f!reader, Choso x f!reader, Sukuna x f!reader, & Ino x f!reader / Content . afab!reader, needy men, slight possessiveness, oral sex (m!receiving), pussy slapping, lots of teasing, handjobs, premature orgasms, subby!gojo (kinda? girl idk), soft dom!choso, lovemaking, bondage (nanami), pet names, spitting, praise, a hint of brat taming here 'n there, non-curse au, dirty talk, filth, fluff (if you squint maybe), overstim, etc. / wc . 9k (whoops lol)

A/N: Happy late Valentine’s day ladies 'n gents, hope you enjoy!! I totally didn’t get distracted by playing lads instead of finishing this. Just pretend this was uploaded on time, yeah? Thx. [MDNI]

ᡣ𐭩 Toji Fushiguro

“You can handle it, c’monnn,” Your boyfriend–, no, your fiancé (as of today) grunts out to you in between the mean thrusts he’s gifting you with.

Your fingers are busy clawing at the sheets below and you’ve got the prettiest arch for your lover. With your ass perked up in the air and his fat throbbing cock stretching your cunt so messily wide as drool slobs out your mouth and wets up the bed beneath you. You’d been fucked so dumb already and yet there he was still talking you to filth anyway.

Lopsided scared lips curving up into a smug smirk, Toji brings a hand down against the fat of your ass. Grunting, “There ya’ go, jus’ like that doll, handle that fuckin’ cock. Uhuh…”

You were–or, trying to, anyway. He’s almost always rough like this but shit even after years of being with the man, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the girthy inches of his cock. Hence why your eyes are meeting the back of your skull and you’re babbling soft moans of his name down into the bedding.

“T-Toji,” You mewl sweetly, prompting a mean reel of his toned hips back back back until his sopping tip is left leaving a lewd lil’ kiss against the slit of your cunt. A filthy string of slick droops between the two of you and he tuts. 

“Hm? What’s wrong?” He huffs with a tilt of his head. That large hand of his gives your already hand-marked ass a gentle rub-over while he awaits your shaky reply. Your lashes are busy fluttering and you don’t even continue your statement—instead, you wiggle your hips back, urging for him to push into you again.

It’s then that Toji gets what you want and decides to tease you just a bit more, taking his heavy cock into his hands and moving to tap the head against your left ass cheek. “Whaat?” He utters breathily, almost as if he were mocking you and cooing at you simultaneously, “You want me back inside ya’?”

Nodding dumbly, you just barely angle your head to look back at him and you’re met with his intense hazy verdant gaze. “Mhm,” You grumble to him.

In comes that cocky smile of his and he completely removes his hands from both you and himself, clasping them behind his back for a moment as he redirects his gaze down to what little space remains between his cock and your pulsing hole.

“Heh,” He scoffs shortly and then nods his chin down at the lewdness below him, “Work for it. Lemme see that hand,” Toji directs, to which you hesitate little to shift your hand under your body and in between your legs, fingertips grazing his sensitive balls for half a second before you messily wrap your hand around his cock and tug on him carefully. “Fuuck,” He smiles at your fingers perfectly hugging his throbbing shaft, “That’s a pretty rock I gotcha’, isn’t it?”

Oh, right. How could you have possibly forgotten the reason he’s been acting the way he has all night. You’re engaged now. He proposed earlier that day right after dinner and it was the most romantic thing ever—of course he had you wear that ring for the rest of the night, even while he fucks you stupid.

“Mhmm…” The sound of Toji’s throaty hum makes your cunt shiver in pure need. You carefully angle his cock toward your pussy and catch a glimpse of him drooling a little before he swipes his tongue over his lips and pulls his lower one in between his teeth. Voice dipping an octave lower, “Keep goin’, guide me to her.”

Shifting your knees backwards against the bed and closing the distance between his length and you, you decide only to get back at him for a few seconds and purposefully swipe his angry cockhead up ‘n down against your slobbering folds. You watch the way his eyebrows twist up and his lips part softly, a breathy sound dangerously close to a whine falling from his dampened mouth.

“Don’t do that, baby,” Toji whispers, quickly moving his beefy hands to your hips and pushing himself forward. “Y’know how much I hate bein’...” His jaw falls open as you interrupt his sentence by merely pulling his cock an inch inside you, “...T-Teased-, shit.”

You continue on like that for a while, fucking yourself solely on his plump cockhead and getting drunk off the feeling. Not to mention the heavy grunts Toji releases as you keep control. His eyes are so greedy on you and he simply can't get enough.

Your sappy walls hug the ridges of his cock so snug that it makes his breath grow heavier by the second even though he's not fully inside you. “Fuck." Your fiancé muttered, "Look at you, all perfect jus’ f’me.”

You're slow to retract your hand and focus all your movement into your hips, feeling him give you a lazy roll forward as his cock slots back into your cunt in one slippery motion. Letting off a moan of his name once he casually reaches the hilt of your pussy, “Toji..”

He swallows down whatever pathetic noise had been on the verge of escaping his throat and gives your hips a tender squeeze, “Hmm?”

You forget why exactly you called his name for a hot second due to the way he picks up this slow but deep pace with you—a complete contrast to earlier. Your face turns into the bed for a moment and you whine, “Hnngh…" Lips parting hotly against the sheets, you eventually manage out a muffled, "'Love you."

His cock throbs inside you and you gasp at the way he snaps his hips forward unintentionally, moving his palms to the bed at your sides and leaning down to you, “You love me?” Toji taunts, earning a cute nod of your head. “Yeahhh? Go on, show me then. Show me how much you love this cock right now,” His hand slithers under you and you feel his weight press against you, deepening the aching inches inside you whilst his thick calloused fingertips meet your clit.

He doesn't even have to clarify what he means by that because you're making the filthiest mess around his cock for the nth time of that night and he's smiling over you, “Uhuh. Juuus’ like that, pretty.”

A pitched sound leaves you but you manage to find yourself again somewhere within your high, lifting your head and huffing, “S-Say it back,” Before glancing to him and shooting him a glare, accompanied with the same pout he think he fell in love with, “...A-Asshole.”

Toji rolls his eyes profoundly at that but he smiles, “Yeah, yeah, love you too, brat.” Then you feel yourself collapsing into the mattress as he leans all the way down to your ear, presses a haste kiss against your skin, and then whispers, “Can’t wait t’marry you.”

ᡣ𐭩 Nanami Kento

It's Valentine's day night and yet there you were still having to beg your husband of many years for something. Moaning, “Ken' please.” While you flash your best pleading eyes and stare up at the man.

Ever the gentleman, Nanami merely smiles at you as if he were confused, “Please, what, my love?"

Your brows twist up and you bat your eyelashes at him, glancing down to watch the way he rudely slaps his heavy cock against your cunt again, “Stop teasin’.”

Your overly handsome husband has the audacity to smile at your sudden command, “Oh? But look at you now," He says in that gentle baritone that makes your cunt clench around nothing, "You’re drooling for me..."

You wanted to say something else, y'know, argue and beg him to just fuck you already but when he lifts his cock away from your pussy entirely, all you can do is let out a pathetic whine. The sound prompts a slight spurt of precum from his tip but just to make things a lil' messier, Nanami brings his free hand up to his mouth and your eyes widen as you watch him.

Now, you've always known that your man was a gentleman during the day and a complete freak at night but god does he never fail to make your breath hitch. You watch him with glossy eyes as he spits a wad of saliva onto his finger tips, bring them down to his cockhead, smears the liquid messily over his tip, faintly moans, and then gently thrusts himself right up against your clit.

With a nasty slip against you, Nanami is left panting. His cheeks are flush with a warm shade of pink and you can feel your entire body heating up more and more by the second as he continues to tease you to tears.

You thought he'd stop there and give you what you wanted but no, the moment you moan out his name, he grows the desire to drag all this teasing out even further. Dragging his cock back against your heat and smearing his pre all over your sloppy folds, Nanami groans.

"My gorgeous girl," He murmurs to you. Though, you're not sure if it was to you or your cunt. You believe it's the later as he takes his unoccupied hand and uses his thumb and index to spread the lips of your pussy open—following this action up with another lift and mean slap of his cock, a slick wet sound entering the air as he does so.

Your back arches up a little at that and it becomes apparent to you for the first time in a while since you'd gotten to this point with your husband that, well, he's got your hands tied up over your head. You couldn't reach down and urge is cock inside you even if you wanted to (despite the bondage being your idea).

So, there you are, legs spread open like some slut-, his slut, panting and huffing at how badly you're aching for him to be inside you. Your cunt tensing around nothing with every heavy thwack of his cock and wad of spit he dribbles down onto the filthy exposure.

It's not until Nanami rolls his dripping tip around your clit in taunting circles that you start genuinely losing your mind. Your hands squirm to move at the sensation and your husband remains almost as composed as ever while watching your face twist up into pleasure. Your lashes are batting and you're releasing a soft string of moans, whispering his name, and lifting your hips in desperation.

To which he simply presses a hand down to your hip and pins you to the bed. Then he stares dead into those loving eyes of yours and starts swatting his cock head left 'n right against your twitching clit. Oh now he's just being mean.

You start pouting and open your mouth to say something, only to be cut off by a clear moan bubbling out your throat as Nanami drags his cock down, fucks himself into his fist against you, and plunges only the tip in and out and in and out of you.

"Ken please," You repeat, "Just put it in."

"I am, aren't I?" Nanami hums with a kind smile on his face.

"All of it," You grunt, trying to lifting your hips again but failing as he shoves you right back down.

Scoffing, "My wife's demanding today, isn't she?"

"You've been doing this for hours," You bite back with a bratty eye roll.

"Oh please, now she's just being dramatic. What do you say, hun?" He redirects to ask your cunt, "Think I just give her what she wants?" His cock rubs right in between your folds and you can feel the veins decorating his length throbbing. "Should I stuff you full already?"

The lack of attention to you (in a way) makes you frown, "Kento—"

"Don't be rude, sweetheart." He cuts off sharply and sternly.

You grumble something under your breath and that earns Nanami's fawn brown eyes back onto your face. It's almost intimidating the way he looks at you, a gentle glare, like he dares you to repeat yourself. Spoiler alert, you don't. If anything, you swallow thickly and wonder what's going on in his mind as to why he's staring at you so hard all of a sudden-

Nanami cuts every thought you were having off with one sharp thrust into your cunt, a nasty squelch echoing into the air along with a hitched breath from his throat. He then slumps down against you, pressing his hard chest against the softness of your own, moving his lips purposefully to the crown of your ear and tugging a bit of your skin in between his teeth.

Your arms jerk against the restrictions fastened around your wrist as the reflex to wrap them around his neck and claw at his back kicks in.

Nanami drags his hips back and the next thrust into you makes you choke out a moan right into the sex-enduced air. Your body was so so hot against his, that's why he liked teasing you so much beforehand. Sure, he could've gotten you this worked up with his voice alone but, where's the fun in that?

And as for his voice that he knows you love so much, Nanami intentionally presses his mouth against your ear and groans your name deeply. You throb so prettily around him that it makes his lips curve into a knowing smile, "I missed you.” He says into your ear.

Nanami's hands find your legs and he grips onto your plush skin firmly with those hardworking palms of his, parting you a bit wider for himself before picking up his pace.

"K-Kento, fuck!" You gasp as he angles precisely into you.

Growling hotly into your skin, “Agh, I know, I know," Nanami coos. He shifts his hips only a little and zones into that same area inside you, feeling your lips quiver around the girth of his cock, "That’s the spot, isn’t it?”

You're a bit too busy losing your mind beneath him, having already reached your orgasm the moment he slid into you and now being fucked into an embarrassing state of overstimulation. 'Guess that's where all that teasing landed you—and you have the nerve to wonder why he does it.

Chuckling at you as if he's not seconds away from stuffing you full of gooey ropes of cum, “So sensitive.” Nanami teases. He then leans up and allows his eyes to fall on your expression. You were a mess, a few tears were slipping down your cheeks, your eyes kept flickering back, and a spot of drool was spilling out the corner of your lips.

“And look at this face,” Nanami's quick to bring attention to it, to which you whine and try turning your head away from him out of embarrassment. He's been down this road with you time and time again so, all he does is bring a hand to your jaw and force you to look at him.

Inching closer to you and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, “You look so beautiful taking all of me like this," He praises, tongue darting out to lap up the few tears you had decorating that pretty face of yours. He was so infatuated with you. "Hear me?" Nanami utters.

You manage a messy fucked-out nod but that's simply not enough for this husband of yours. No, he's a greedy man when it comes to you.

So, Nanami moves his lips over yours and sears his words right into your mouth, "Say it," He tells you, "Tell me how beautiful my wife is."

With a strong gripping clench around his cock at that, you struggle to maintain eye contact with him during this moment of intimacy and the words come fumbling out of your mouth, "Ken..."

"Tell me," He says in a gentler tone, "Please?"

"S-So beautiful," You whimper. You're so embarrassed as you say that out loud to him but, even so, your body is feeling a bit more confident than before. Leading to your legs wrapping around his toned waist and locking him into this position with you—even though you can't verbalize it, you can physically be that confident wife he loves so much.

Which is exactly why Nanami mashes his lips onto yours once you do that and starts fucking you into the bed, groaning, grunting, growling into your mouth as his tongue sloppily meets yours.

After all, what kind of man would he be if he didn't make sure you understood how gorgeous you are on Valentine's day of all days? Which is why the remainder of the night is spent with him asking telling you to compliment yourself.

ᡣ𐭩 Gojo Satoru

Oh he’s definitely surprising you with his cock on full display for you. After spending the entire week showering you with gifts and a new surprise each day, how could he not save the best gift for the night of?

“What’s with that look on your face, do you not like your gift?” Your boyfriend, who’s currently sprawled out against the comfort of your shared mattress, asks you as you stand a few feet away simply baffled.

Blinking, you try to gather the display before you as calmly as possible. “Is this why you rushed out the bathroom like that?” You’d asked in return, referring only to a few minutes prior to this as you and your lover had bathed oh-so-romantically together.

Gojo tries his best to flash an indifferent smile, as if he isn’t utterly embarrassed right now.

You’ve got to be the only women he’d ever present himself to like this—matching bathrobe hanging just barely off of his shoulders as he lays across the bed, body dampened with water that glistens under the soft room lighting, cock exposed and throbbing as it typically does when he’s around you, with a tip that’s just as embarrassed and flushed as the rest of his body is, and a bow wrapped firmly around his base.

You hardly know where to place your eyes. He’d been basically courting you all week and loved on you a bit more than normal (which says a lot in itself because this man is just head over heels for you) just for him to end the day with one last surprise for you; himself.

Crossing your arms right under your chest and taking careful steps closer to him, a smile creeps onto your face, “I can get this anytime of the year, how’s this a gift?” You tease before dipping one knee onto the mattress.

Gojo’s rolling his eyes immediately and a pout tugs at his lower lip, “Well… I put a bow on it,” He practically mumbles out to you.

Your boyfriend really had a knack for being so utterly adorable when he wanted to. Which is exactly why you can’t help but proceed to tease him a little. “I can see that ‘Toru,” You hum softly.

And honestly, who are you to refuse a gift like this? Look at the man, he went 'out of his way' just to put a pretty lil' bow on his cock juuust for you!

Obviously you waste no time in enjoying your gift.

It started out with soft banter, a slow removal of your bathrobe, a sensual approach to him on the bed, and a quick position of yourself in between his legs. Although, it didn't take long for you to clasp your teeth onto the ribbon wrapped around him and then give it an eager tug.

By then, Gojo's breath was already heavy. How could it not be? He's got the best girlfriend a man could ever ask for in between his legs and unwrapping his cock with a hungry look in her eyes—of course he's going to have unsteady breathing.

Especially when you look up at his face as you pull the bow loose and allow it to fall out against his bare thighs. Then you're sending him a teasing wink before bringing your lips to the head of his cock. And oh he was leaking the entire time, cum dripping all down the sides of his lengthy cock before your lips fully met him.

Gojo always found himself to be a weak man in the face of you, no matter what he did, and today was no different.

Your freshly manicured nails are the only thing he can focus on to keep himself from cumming on the spot as your hand wraps around his base and you lull your tongue out to meet the crown of his cock.

Giving him one teasing kitten lick, you sigh, "Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are 'Toru?"

You're trying to kill him, clearly. If his face wasn't flushed before, it damn sure is now. This is the only reason why he tries his best to avoid letting you give him head, he always ends up like this—cheeks as red as ever, cock twitching wildly in your hand before he even enters your mouth, and voice coming out with a faint crack as he tries to respond to you.

"N-No," He responds. There's this pitch in his voice that makes your cunt throb. You never knew Gojo Satoru to have a voice crack like that. You hadn't even done anything yet. He's quick to clear his throat though, "I mean, only you've told me that."

Your plumped, lightly saliva-glossed lips wrap around the tip of his cock and his head immediately flies back. Hah, yeah, he's not lasting too long like this. "Do you like it when I tell you how pretty you are?" You whisper softly.

His blue eyes are fixed up on the ceiling now and as you continue to look up at him, you just watch the violent bob of his adam's apple as he gulps. "'Course I do," Gojo tries to say confidently, "I like anything you tell me, sweets."

"Yeah?" You purr. Ah, shit. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. "Can you look at me, Satoru?" You request softly.

Mhm, he's done for. Not able to tell you no or ignore your gentle request, Gojo forces himself to tip his head back into place and look down at you. Cum starts dribbling out from his fat cockhead again but that's not what makes him lose his mind, no.

What really gets him is the way you stick your tongue out and make him watch his lengthy inches slot into your mouth. Saliva spills past your lips and wets up the rest of his length that your mouth doesn't reach, in which you spread around with your hand as you rotate your palm against his shaft.

He can't help the full body reaction that invokes. He almost immediately sits up a bit straighter and moans, "Fuck.. Can you warn me next time before you just—"

His jaw falls slack the moment you pop your mouth off of his cock and start jerking him off with whatever saliva is left lathering his aching length. Snowy white brows twisting up in a mix of pleasure and confusion, Gojo loses his breath as you lean up to his face and meet his lips with a messy kiss.

"Mmgh," He groans against you, moving a shaky hand to your waist as he kisses you back passionately.

When you pry away from him, you grin. "You like anything I tell you, right?"

He nods, "Uhuh..." Gojo's eyes are low on yours and he wonders where exactly you're going with this. He can't think too clearly with the way you're jerking him off but—

You cut his brain off with a sensual whisper near his lips, "What if I told you about how much I like havin' your cock in my mouth?"

He cums. Right then, right there, in your hand, as prematurely as ever. And that, that is exactly why Gojo hates when you give him head. You can't help but look down at the mess your boyfriend's made of himself in your hand. So much came out that it makes you giggle.

And the fact that you've get to stop moving your hand only makes him choke out your name. To which you tune out, too focused on how much cum is still spurting out of his glazed tip. Then you make this face, as if you were satisfied with just that and...

Gojo thinks he falls in love with you all over again. He spent all week catering to you, today especially, and normally he's the one who has you like this by the end of a special night but here he was—pathetically falling for how much you seemed to enjoy seeing him like this.

Seeing him...submissive.

Yeah, but don't worry. This is only a Valentine's day thing. Trust and believe he will be reversing the roles in a moment. Y'know, as soon as you remove your hand from his cock and stop staring at him like you want to devour him whole.

ᡣ𐭩 Choso Kamo

“It’s yours Cho’, take it.”

Did you have any idea what you were even asking for sometimes? 

How could you moan out something like that when he’s mid-stoke and expect him to hold back? Of course his hips are gonna start stuttering against you and he’s gonna thrust his thick cock a bit harder than intended as words stumble out his mouth, “H-Huh?” Choso gasps, dumbfoundedly. “But, I wanted to cater to you tonight..” He pouts.

Even while literally being on top of you, gently pressing your legs against your chest, and stuffing you full of his rudely curved cock, he still had a way of being so soft ‘n kind to you. A shade of red decorates his cheeks and the tips of his ears and he’s got that lovestruck look in his eyes as he admires you below him.

Sending him the same smile he fell in love with, “You always cater to me, baby. S’okay, I don’t want you to hold back anymore.” You tell him.

Choso swallows thickly and he halts the movement of his hips for a second, leaving his throbbing cock bulging against the walls of your slobbering pussy. “But, Valentine’s day…” He trails off carefully and his brows meet in confliction, “I should be making love to you—”

Your hands move to cup his cheeks into your palms and you giggle, “You make love to me all year long.” Tugging him down and forcing his eyes to focus solely on your own, “Look at me,” You breathe out, feeling his dick twitch inside you. “Tonight… I want you to fuck me.”

“Princess,” Choso grunts, falling forward a little and motioning to kiss you. Part of him wanted to shut your mouth with his own. If you kept talking to him like that, he was gonna act on desires he’s been suppressing for a long time.

You let him kiss you for a couple of seconds but soon pry your lips away with a wet pop, whispering, “I know you want to,” You point out, earning a mean press of his hips and causing his cockhead to greet your sweet spot with the filthiest french kiss, “Ah… A-And you’ve been such a good boyfriend to me, so—”

Choso tugs his hips back and his expression changes immediately. From soft ‘n loving to something more serious, more feral, “Say that again?” He rasps out.

Your eyelashes meet a couple times in shock at his quick change in demeanor but, you don’t hesitate to hum out to him, “You’ve been a good boyfriend to me.”

His eyes get lower and suddenly his voice is growing huskier, “And the other part? What you said before that.” Choso asks, leaning up slightly and letting your hands leave his face.

“I want you to fuck me,” You repeat, confused as to what exactly this is about to earn you.

The last thing that leaves Choso’s kiss-bitten lips is a low curse of, “Shit.”

Maybe it was the first thing you said that threw him off, the whole thing about how it’s his and he should just take it, or maybe it was the look in your eyes, or even those last two statements. He’s been a good boyfriend? You want him to fuck you?? Shit, how the hell is he supposed to function properly after hearing that?

Which is exactly why it doesn’t take him long to do as you’ve asked to and fuck you down into the bed in the meanest mating press.

Cock bullying into your soaking cunt, husk groans exiting his throat, and hands all over your body to grab and hold onto any bit of your hot skin he can get to—Choso’s treating your pussy ruder than he ever has before. The nasty squelch that echoes into the air after every thrust, the way you moan his name out sexier than he’s heard you before, and the cute twitch and clench of your cunt around his cock all drive him even crazier.

You find yourself embarrassed by how quickly he makes you cum by acting the way he is and you move your hands to cover your face. Choso’s never felt this way before but the sight of you being too shy to show him your expression while he pounds into you makes him a bit greedier.

“Don’t cover your face,” Choso huffs out, “Lemme see you.” Before you could even move one of your hands away, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and tugs it away from you. You gaze up at him all wide-eyed and lost in pleasure, watching pants leave his lips and the way his hair messily falls over you. Getting a bit rougher with his thrusts and watching your eyes get even wider, “This is how you wanted me, isn’t it?” Choso asks.

You’re quick to shoot your other hand to his chest and your nails claw at his skin as you give him the weakest push, jaw stupidly hanging open with moan after moan sliding out your throat. “C-Choso,” You choke when he makes this specific face—almost as if the sight of you pushing at him for a break made his brain short-circuit.

Pupil dilating and cock pulsing inside you, Choso nibbles on his lower lip for a second to bite back a smile before grunting heavily, “You’re pushin’ me away,” He points out before dropping his weight onto you even more. “S’cute…” Choso huffs thoughtlessly. He’s beyond pussydrunk at this point, and hardly even realizes what’s coming out of his mouth. Groaning, “Ugh, I-I thought you said it was mine? Didn’t you want me to take it like it’s mine?” He sears, “Fuck you like I belong t’ya?”

A whimper flies out of your mouth because he’s only emphasizing his every question with a heavier thrust of his cock, gaze locked onto your own so he can watch the way your eyes roll back in bliss. 

“That’s it,” Choso whispers to you before lifting himself a little, letting go of your wrist, and bringing that calloused hand of his down to the lower half of your tummy. Then he presses his palm down, “Can you feel me right here?”

Slurred together, “M’gonna cum,” Starts pouring from your lips over and over in a faint whiny whisper and your boyfriend simply fucks you right through it.

Smiling, Choso seems to purr his words out, “Yeahh? C’mon then, cum on this cock,” He grunts, speeding up his pace as he feels you gush all around him, “Get it nice ‘nd messy, princess.”

Your eyes are at the back of your skull by that point and your body quakes beneath your boyfriend. You didn’t know his mouth could be so nasty with you—in a verbal sense, anyway. And the way he was staring down at you, soaking up every moan and mewl that left those pretty lips of yours, fuck it made you wonder why you didn’t ask him to do this sooner. 

You’re not sure if he’s ever made you cum that hard before (he has, you’re just a bit too fucked out to remember right now). So, as you come down from your high, he slows himself down, smearing the mix of your cum and the slick that’s been drooling from his tip all against your pulsing walls. Your pants come to a steady halt once you catch your breath and you glance up at him with this dazed look plastered all over your face.

Choso brows furrow and he nuzzles every inch of his cock into you slowly, holding himself back from fucking you into overstimulation, “S-Shit, don’t look at me like that…” He mumbles to you. Aaand just like that he was back to normal, averting his gaze and everything, “Makin’ me nervous..” When his eyes do find yours again, he leans in to engage in an intimate whisper, “Was that too much?”

You fight the urge to use whatever you have left of your stamina to laugh at him. Shaking your head, you palm his cheek again and pull him down to kiss you. Then, you speak in between his lips, “Want you to do it again, Cho’.”

His breath hitches, “O-Oh, you like that?” It takes a second for that to register but when it does, he nods and leans up, confidence returning just like that. “Mh, I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Didn’t think you’d like my mouth to be jus’ as rude as my cock is with you.”

ᡣ𐭩 Sukuna Ryomen

“What a stupid Holiday…” Sukuna grumbles out to you not to long after the two of you had arrived home from a rather romantic date. “This is no different than what we normally do," He scoffs, referring to the way you're propped up on his lap right now.

You flash your boyfriend a sly smile and rock your hips back against the bulge that’s poking up against your cunt, “Yeah, but you’re twitching more than normal, ‘Kuna.”

He kisses his teeth and glances away from you dismissively, his grip on your hips tightening. “You have been depriving me of my needs all week,” Sukuna grunts out as you rub over a particularly sensitive part of his cock.

All these stupid layers in between you and him were driving him insane. He had half a mind to toss you into the back seat ‘n rip the flimsy dress you’re wearing right off but after putting him on a sex ban from the last holiday (Christmas) that he did that… he decides to control himself a bit more on this day.

“The buildup will be worth it,” Your voice sounds weirdly sweeter than normal. It’s almost though every syllable that slips off of your tongue makes his entire body react. It was weird. You were weird.

Scoffing again, “I’m sick of this ‘buildup’ nonsense.” Your boyfriend complains to you again.

Your hands trail up along his broad shoulders and you lean closer to him, breasts grazing his beefy chest as you do so, “Sukuna—”

He’s quick to snap his eyes back onto yours due to the closer proximity and there seems to be a faint softening in those typically hard red eyes of his. “Let me at least touch you,” Sukuna murmurs. You swear you notice his face flicker into something almost needy for a split second but perhaps you imagine it. 

Or at least, you thought you imagined it until your boyfriend leans closer to you and slithers one of his arms around your waist—the other slipping down to sneak beneath the fabric of your dress and meet your bare skin. Then, he stares directly at your lips, “...Please?”

You’re taken aback by the word that just left his lips. Sukuna Ryomen, your boyfriend of two years, begging you for something? Perhaps he hit his head sometime earlier. “Did you just beg?” You chuckle out lightheartedly, not exactly taking him seriously.

Sukuna remains indifferent, as if he said nothing out of the ordinary. “I did,” He hums, dropping his gaze down to your body atop his and squeezing your leg a bit, “Lift your hips, angel.”

You blink. Then, you feel his cock practically jump under you as your next word leaves your lips, “Sukuna are you…” 

Even though you trailed off, he was losing it. You hadn’t let him do anything sexual with you in weeks and today of all days was more tortuous than any other. The dress you wore to dinner, the red lipstick stains you pressed into his neck before you’d even went out, your scent—fuck, you smell ten times sweeter than normal. Maybe it’s just because it’s been a while but, either way, the simple utterance of his name for a third time in a row makes his body so utterly anxious for you.

“I am aching to touch you,” Sukuna huffs, a hinted groan lying beneath his words as he shifts his face into the crook of your neck and inhales strongly. Then, his fingernails dig into the skin of your thigh and his voice grows rougher, “Lift your fuckin’ hips.” He demands, pausing for a couple seconds to let his eyes fall to the back of his head in reaction to the throb he feels against his precum smothered cockhead. “…Please?” Sukuna whispers.

And that was all it took for you. You never knew him to beg and although it was extremely foreign to hear the first time, you wouldn't exactly ignore how sexy it sounded leaving his lips.

He always demands and sometimes asks—never forces, of course, but never ever begs… until today, that is. So how can you possibly find it in you to deny him any longer?

Slowly, you begin to raise your hips and at that very second, you look down and notice his own rolling upwards as he adjusts himself in his seat. He may have asked you to lift but he didn’t think much about how that meant he wouldn’t be feeling your warm panty-clad cunt against his bulge anymore.

With a throaty grumble, Sukuna rubs the bridge of his nose against the skin of your neck and he moves one of his hands in between your legs, “...Thank you.”

Everything about your body was so so addictive. The way you gasp lightly as he presses his fingers against your flimsy panties that hug your cunt so snuggly, the slight arch in your spine, and the way your hand meets his wrist at the touch all drive him mad with lust.

Sukuna could feel his heart pulsing in his chest in a way that was unusual. He’d never felt such strong waves of need until now.

The pads of his two thick fingers rub right in between your slick folds against your panties and he smirks, “All that talk about ‘buildup’ and yet you were more anxious for this than me.” He points out, feeling the twitch that follows his words.

He slowly tugs that soaked fabric to the side and as soon as his fingers rub against your cunt bare, you gasp again. Maybe you were needier than you’d let on. Sukuna retracts his hand for only a second and brings it to his mouth, pressing them against his lips and letting your slick rest there for a moment before returning his fingers to your dripping hole.

Then, you just barely watch him lick his lips and grunt at the taste right against your neck. Then he kisses you and positions two of his fingers to your entrance, easing them both in seamlessly while trailing his kisses up to your jawline.

Whispering hotly into your skin, “Look at that, took me all the way in only one thrust.” He breathes, drawing his fingers outward steadily and feeling the clench your pussy tries to hold him with, “S’warm in here,” Sukuna moans a little and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this before.

Dipping his digits right back into you, your boyfriend works your squelching cunt with ease, soon pressing his thumb against your clit and groaning while you moan over him, “Mmgh, I missed playin’ with her like this. She’s so reactive…”

You were losing your mind just as much as he was, eyes frantically traveling over to his car windows and wondering what someone would think if they passed by and saw this. He didn’t have the darkest tint in the world and even though it was nightfall, a person could gather a erotic idea of what was taking place inside the vehicle rather easily. 

A heavy pant falls from your lips, “Hah, w-we should stop, ‘Kuna. What if someone sees—”

“Who cares? I am celebrating my woman on this ‘special’ day,” He tells you, upping the thrust of his fingers ever so slightly as he lifts his head from your neck and looks at you.

He couldn’t get over how much you were soaking his fingers right now, slick trickling down along his skin, decorating his wrist with pretty filth. Oh, you were everything to him—not that he would ever tell you. Instead, he smiles and curls his fingers deep inside you, “Pleasing her special spots, watching her pretty face twist up, cherishing her… loving her.”

Your legs twitch to clamp together at the sound of that. With glossy parted lips, you flash your boyfriend a dumbfounded look, “D-Did you just say you love me?” You utter as the faintest smile of satisfaction tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Sukuna maintains eyes contact with you and shoves his fingers deeper just to watch you lift your hips a bit as if to escape, “In a way, I suppose I did say that, huh?” He laughs a little and his head tilts to the side when he feels your walls throb around his two fingers, more of your slick gushing past your messily parted folds and wetting him up even more.

“Oh, was that to your liking? What if I say it more directly?” He moves to your right ear and says confidently and heavily with that rough voice of his, “I love you.”

Your face falls forward onto his shoulder and you moan messily into him, thighs tensing, and teeth baring just to bite down on him a little as you’re fingered right over the edge. An almost annoyed groan exits your throat and you find yourself frustrated at how embarrassingly quickly you finished.

Now laughing at you, “That’s all it took for you to cum?” Sukuna teases, pulling his fingers out for a second and leaning back to get a glance at it, “Look at this mess you’ve made, ugh.” He hums, parting his fingers and watching the way your release drips all messily along his skin.

“S’your fault,” You puff out against his shoulder.

His smile widens as if he were proud, “My fault? Hm. I suppose I should take responsibility then, yes?”

You lift your head a little and look down to his lap, knowing exactly what he means by that. Then, your gaze raises to his face and you quirk a soft brow before moving one of your hands to adjust his seat.

Sukuna scoffs lightly and leans back against his steadily reclining seat, cocking his head to the side and eyeing you up and down. When your let-back of his seat comes to a stop and there’s enough space for the two of you to move your limbs more freely, your hands find their place on his chest and you trail down. “You wanna.. in here?” You murmur curiously.

“Mhm, smart girl.” Sukuna praises just as your hands meet his waistline. Then, he looks down and nods his chin to your hands, “Now, unzip me.”

ᡣ𐭩 Ino Takuma

After spending all day loving and clinging to you more than he normally does, Ino practically forgot to do anything remotely sexual with you. It wasn’t exactly a priority for him on this day. Why would it be? All he wanted to do was see his stunning girlfriend keep that pretty smile on her face all day, sex was the very last thing on his mind.

Though… it becomes rather apparent to him while the two of you are cuddling late that same night. It’s about half an hour past eleven, he’s laying big spoon to you with your back pressed against his chest and your ass flush with his crotch—not that he over-sexualized the position, it was simply cuddling. 

It’s not until the show you guys were making fun of switches to a full on passionate sex scene that his eyes ever so naturally shift from the TV and to you laying against him. One of his arms had been idly wrapped around your waist but not even two minutes into the scene and he started moving it. His fingers begin to splay across your stomach and he rubs his palm over the fabric of your shirt for a bit before deciding experimentally angling his head down into your neck and planting a kiss to the side of it.

Just as he dips down, your entire body reacts and you smile. “Takuma?” You whisper whilst his hand creeps to the end of your oversized t-shirt and then slips beneath it so that he can feel on you skin to skin.

Mumbling and trying his best to keep his smile back, “Hm?”

Your head turns back to him and he lifts his mouth away from your neck to meet eyes with you. “Did that scene get you worked up?”

It’s then that it dawns on you for the millionth time that your boyfriend is really just the most delectable man you could’ve ever laid eyes on. Curious brown gaze gleaming down at you as he sits up a little, soft set grin spreading across his face, and voice leaving his throat as gentle as silk, “Not really,” Ino whispers to you. “I jus’ wanna love on you, baby.”

“Yeah?” Your smile widens and he takes that as his sign to lean in and connect his lips with yours. 

It's a tender moment between you two at first. Soft pecks that both of you chase for as the other pulls away ever so slightly carefully turn into something more heated. Ino’s lips lock onto yours firmly and he pushes against you, his hand rising further up under your shirt before his palm meets your breasts and he gives you a gentle squeeze. 

Groaning into your mouth at the simple contact of your hardening nipple to the center of his hand, Ino can’t help the push of his hips against your own. After that, his touches only grow greedier and greedier. Few words are exchanged between the two of you—only grunts, groans, and breathy moans enter the air for a while as you both melt into one another.

You’ve no idea how much time passes before you end up with two of his skillful fingers working the inner depths of your leaking cunt. His breath is now hot against your ear, “So wet… all I did was kiss you a couple of times,” He chuckles playfully.

A whine leaves your throat and you feel his fingers rub eagerly inside you, “I want more.”

Ino gets a little nervous at the sound of that but, he plays it off as if he were still the one in control of the situation, “Aw, is this not enough for you?” he taunts.

You shake your head and move your hand down over his, guiding his fingers deeper into you.

He starts to get the idea but, instead of fingerfucking you like you so clearly want him to, he tugs his digits out and casually cocks a brow, “Hm. So, what do you want then?”

“You know what I want,” You say, groaning at the loss.

Your boyfriend shrugs innocently and a playful smile dawns across his lips before he looks elsewhere, “Maybe, buuut I wanna hear you ask for it.”

Not hesitating one bit, you lean up closer to him and briefly pull his lower lip into your mouth and suck. Ino’s eyes fall down on your movements and you go from sucking on his lip to kissing him fully, to which he folds. And if that wasn’t enough, when your lips do sever from one another, you whisper, “Can you fuck me, Takuma?”

“Hah, anything for you, beautiful,” He whispers, quickly caught off guard as you turn around to face him full and moving your hands down to his sweats, “O-Oh, we’re eager, are we?”

“Want you inside me,” You grumble, hand sinking past his sweatpants and straight into his boxers to tug his hard cock out. 

Ino had let out one last curse in reaction to your eagerness but he damn sure didn’t deny you of anything. It’s not long before you’re lifting one of your legs and he’s stuffing himself inside you as you both continue laying on your sides facing one another. Your leg hooks onto his hip and he ends up with a mean grip onto the underside of your thigh.

Your legs are all intertwined with one another and Ino’s groaning into your neck while he feeds your greedy cunt his cock over and over again, sucking your skin into his mouth, and leaving all sorts of marks on you.

At some point he lets off a moan and feels your pussy grip onto him even tighter than before in reaction, “Like that?” He whispers, taking your next moan as a response, “Uhuh, I can feel it.”

His voice is so caring and attentive with you, despite the constant stretch of his dick past your folds, slick spilling all out your lips and creating the sloppiest mess of wetness where the two of you are connected. His plump cockhead is giving the depths of your cunt the tenderest smooches, obscure sounds leave both your mouth and your pussy with his every thrust into you. 

Catching your expression particularly lewd, Ino tries to bring your attention back to him and not his cock for a second, inching closer to your face just to talk to you, “Did… ah, did you enjoy your day, baby?” 

Just as he says that to you, you feel his cock glide into that one spot that makes you see stars for a moment. Your jaw falls and you just give him a dumb nod, he’s fucks you so unintentionally good that it makes you lose all trains of thought in only a few minutes—and god when he actually puts in some effort? Now, that’s when you start letting out moans loud enough to earn complaints from your neighbors. 

But for now, Ino doesn’t have to do any of that. You’d been secretly worked up from the moment you woke up to breakfast in bed and now that he’s finally giving you want you’ve been craving, you find your body especially sensitive to his every move and word. 

Ino, as oblivious as ever, simply grins at you, “I enjoyed my day too, mhm.” He hums, eyes all over the way you’re falling apart on his cock right now. His hips snap forward a little harder and the arms you have wrapped around his neck grasp on to him more, nails scratching at his back in reaction—which leaves the prettiest bright red marks he’ll be sure to admire later.

You let out an embarrassingly loud moan at the sudden jerk of his hips and try hiding your face. Ino scoffs before pushing your body over. You fall onto your back and he remains on his side, lazily continuing the sloppy fuck of his cock into you. 

“Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now,” He says with a kind smile, flicking a hand down to thumb at your clit, “That’s my job, remember?” Your back arches up off the bed and you struggle to look at him, “C’mon, keep those pretty eyes on mine. Mhmm, just like that.” He praises.

A gorgeous string of moans leave you as he pushes one of your legs to get you spread apart even further. Which quickly ends up with him positioning himself on top of you and thrusting into you with more eagerness than before. You’re not sure where his sudden urge to press you down against the mattress comes from but he sure as hell starts beating his leaking cockhead right into that spot he knows drives you crazy.

And as if to contrast the abrupt bullying of his throbbing inches into you, he leans his mouth up and kisses your forehead softly. It was as though his next word was a warning in regards to the way he’s about to treat your cunt, “Love you.” Ino whispers.

Yeah, he only says that during sex when he’s either about to cum—which usually consists of those two words being uttered over and over, but one single claim of loving you always leads to your legs parted nice and wide for him so that he can look down and watch his cock disappear inside you.

Which is honestly one of his favorite sights, especially when you let him cum inside you, then he gets the chance to watch the creamy mess struggle to stay in your cunt. What better gift to the two of you on this day than that?

A/N: Join my 18+ discord server for sneak peaks on upcoming works & more!

[buckcherried]

the mirror at the end of the bed was a recent purchase, one made by you, with a singular yet very important intention.

good old-fashioned loverboy kento nanami is a man that loves to make love. he values intimacy, romance. being able to make eye contact during the amorous act of sex was of high importance to him. he fucked insanely well, especially so under these pretenses.

so, even with his hands full of your perfect ass that aligned so nicely at his hips, doggy style had always felt a bit... impersonal. and despite how good and rough he always managed to fuck you, regardless of the position, he always preserved the connection between the two of you. his hand finding yours against your hip and interlocking fingers whilst drilling his cock upward into your cunt as you rode him reverse cowgirl, the way his thumb would caress your cheek as he held a tight grip of your jaw as he fucked your mouth ever so slow and steady... kento nanami always found a way to pour the romantics into everything he did.

his favorite act of romance, though, was eye contact. the very notion had him feral. having his eyes locked with yours as the two of you did the filthiest things to each other — he could cum at the mere thought. you could always see it right there in his eyes, usually moments after you batted your lashes up to meet his low-lidded gaze, and it was all over. it was allllll in the eyes.

that's why last night, not even half an hour after he came buckets into your cunt during a very hot and heavy session in the missionary position with your foreheads practically glued together, you got out the measuring tape. silently, in the warm glow of your bedside lamp that softly lit your sleeping lover's face, you took measurements of the wall facing your bed while the impurest of thoughts ran rampant through your mind.

the delivery men had it up and installed rather quick the next morning. you tipped them and sent them on their way before they could even begin to imagine the plans you had for this new item placed so strategically in your bedroom. you barely had time to fantasize as you heard kento enter down at the front door.

those hazel eyes found yours immediately as soon as their beholder swung open the bedroom door.

through the mirror, you caught his wide-eyed stare from your position on the bed — face down, ass up high in the air, wearing nothing but his favorite black lace set. he stood there for a moment, his stare flitting to your body and back, finding conversation in your eyes as they told him everything he needed to know about how the scene in front of him came to fruition.

kento's bag fell with a thud as it dropped to the floor, his hands finding a new interest as they found his belt. he made quick yet steady work of it, gaze never leaving yours as he pulled it from its loops.

he remained silent as he halved the belt into one hand and walked into the room. your eyes never left his form as he approached the bed, mattress dipping from the added weight as he knelt on it behind you.

you flicked your head to the side, your right cheek pressed against the bed as you peered back at him best you could from this angle, a soft gasp hitching in your throat as you catch him freeing his rigid cock from his dress pants.

his fingers dipped around the material of your thong and dragged it to the side, tapping at your now bare entrance, giving your core a few languid circles, making a mess of your arousal.

"my sweet wife..." kento's voice was low at your ear as he leaned over you, a hand grazing softly over your ass, cock twitching as the length of it pressed flat against your weeping cunt, "if you needed to be fucked like this you just had to ask."

you didn't have the chance to respond before kento sheathed himself inside you, wasting no time in removing any of his clothes as he got to pounding you mercilessly into the bed. his big strong hands held your hips up high, in perfect position, fucking you into oblivion at a pace you couldn’t physically comprehend as the snaps of his hips flung you forward.

your scream was muffled by the bedsheets, fisting the material so hard your knuckles begged for mercy.

kento tutted, hauling your chest up off the bed by seizing both your wrists and yanking them back toward him to clasp in one hand, "eyes, darling."

it was the only warning you needed, eyes locking with his in the reflection of the mirror immediately. the groan that escaped his throat was guttural. you could feel his cock harden against your walls as he continued his ravenous assault of your cunt. his low-lidded gaze was telling, those hazel eyes darker than you had ever seen them.

"ah, there’s my girl.”

the love in his gaze was overwhelming as he quite literally fucked you like he was trying to split you in two. his beefy chest strained against his tight button-up as he put all his strength into the action, the thick muscles of his biceps rippling as he used you as leverage to fuck you even harder. his jaw clenched, those pussydrunk eyes flitting from yours to the place where you connected, hypnotized by the way this thick length sheathes perfectly into your tight little cunt like you were made for him. your gaze was locked on his frame, staring with wide eyes as he spit in his free hand and grazed his way around your trembling thighs to make contact with your clit, knowing he found juuuust the right spot by the way you arched into his touch for more.

kento took the opportunity to rut the entirety of his ruinous cock inside to the hilt, his aching balls flush against your core as he holds himself there, hips grinding in for as much give as your cunt would allow him.

the stretch of him dropped your jaw, your lungs gasping to maintain your breath at the sensation of being completely and utterly full. you could barely keep your eyes open — but fuck, it would be a crime to miss out on the moment before you. those utterly lovesick eyes of his on yours as he began to make work of your clit, so intentionally slow and steady as you warmed his throbbing cock.

it was hard for you to keep it together now. his touch lit you on fire, the soft strokes of his expert fingers that know you oh so well. and that cock of his, so unforgivingly big, rutting there ever so gently at your cervix over and over and over, stuffing you full to the point of delirium.

you tightened around him as you desperately tried to adjust to the stretch. he was so fucking big. no matter how many times kento fucked you it seemed like he’d never fit. but your husband always got the job done.

kento let your wrists free as you caved into the mattress, not letting your eyes leave his as you peered up from the sudden relief of the covers as his free hand ran the length of your back.

“you know just how much i love you, yes?” his pace slowed to an even more intimate speed as he leaned to trail kiss after kiss up your arching spine, “thank you for the surprise, sweet girl..."

the gravel in his voice caught your immediate attention, your lulling eyes that were rolling to the back of your head now snapping back up to meet his.

and there it was. it was always in the eyes. he looked at you like you hung the stars. his wife. the woman he would lay his life down for. the only one to know him so well, so intimately. the woman who'd install a fucking mirror at the end of the bed just for this very moment.

"... now cum for me.”

and you did, immediately. it was all too much now, all you could feel was him. the pressure of his cock, how you could practically feel him all the way up in your stomach — you were done for the moment you watched that last screw drill into the wall this morning.

the shakes racked your body as you came, cunt clenching him for all he’s worth as he followed suit, rutting his hot thick cum inside you like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do. the hand at your clit reaches further down, his fingers splitting the place your searing bodies meet to memorize the feeling of the way his cock ruts in and out of you as the two of you ride out your orgasm.

kento had come undone — a mess of hot and slutty moans at your ear. he simply could not. get. enough.

and as you take in the beautiful sight of him holding you so in the reflection, all sweaty and fucked out of his mind, you couldn’t help but grin as your hand leisurely followed to meet his to feel the last of his strokes stuff your cunt. his eyes, yearning and low-lidded, latched to yours as he watched you open your mouth to speak.

“would the delivery men start to catch on if we had them install another on the ceiling?”

[heejamas]

WAITING ROOM ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ... ﹒ friends to lovers, fluff ... ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: smut, mdni! explicit sexual content, petnames, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) not proofread 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: waiting room - phoebe bridgers

Three years ago, you met Heeseung at a Halloween party. And, in a way, he never really left.

You remember the night in sharp, neon clarity, the kind that only exists in memories warped by time and too many cheap drinks. The bass of the music was rattling against the walls, distorting into something unrecognizable by the time it reached your ears. The air was thick, humid with the breath of a hundred strangers crammed into an apartment too small to hold them. It smelled like spilled alcohol, synthetic fog from a cheap smoke machine, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from some idiot who thought Fireball was a good idea.

You were standing in the kitchen, gripping a plastic cup half-full of something blue and questionably sweet, when you felt it. The warmth of someone moving too close. The press of a shoulder against yours. And then—disaster.

A smear of green, across your arm, your ribs, your stomach.

You stared at it, confused. It looked like paint. Wet, sticky, and clinging to the fabric of your skeleton costume like it belonged there. You blinked once, twice, before dragging your gaze upward, locking eyes with the culprit.

“Oh, shit.”

He was green. No, really, he was covered in it, from his jawline to his collarbone, down his arms, streaked across his hands. He was, in fact, one of the Ninja Turtles.

“Are you radioactive?” you asked, because that felt like a genuine concern at this point.

Heeseung—though you didn’t know his name yet—blinked at you, then looked down at his own arm as if just realizing that, yeah, maybe painting his entire body for a costume wasn’t the best idea. “I, uh—fuck, I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think what?” you repeated, glancing down at your once-pristine skeleton costume. “That maybe body paint takes a while to dry?”

“No, see, I thought it was dry. I waited, like, an hour before putting the costume on.” He sounded both defensive and regretful, like someone who had just now realized the full extent of their mistake.

You sighed, poking at the stain. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially made me the first skeleton in history to die of green slime exposure.”

He let out a breath of laughter, then scratched the back of his neck—a habit you’d later come to recognize as his go-to nervous tic. “On the bright side… at least now you match me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And he did.

That was the beginning of it, you suppose. A stupid mistake, an even stupider conversation, and a boy painted green who somehow managed to wedge himself into your life like he belonged there. You didn’t know then that he’d become your best friend. That in three years, you’d be sitting next to him in a car at two in the morning, singing along to songs you didn't really know. That you’d learn the exact way he liked his coffee, the rhythm of his breath when he fell asleep next to you on your couch, the way he always looked at you like he was on the verge of saying something important but never quite did.

No, back then, all you knew was that he was an idiot. And that, somehow, against all odds—you kind of liked him anyway. But you and Heeseung became friends by accident.

It wasn’t an immediate thing, not like some cosmic force snapped its fingers and tied the two of you together. No, it was slower than that, more like a series of small collisions, a gradual intertwining of orbits. And most of it had to do with Yunjin.

You and Yunjin had been friends since the beginning of college. One of those friendships that happens fast, like flipping a switch. One day, you were just two people forced into the same group project, and the next, you were sneaking snacks into late-night study sessions, texting each other memes at 3 a.m., and laughing until your stomach hurt over things that weren’t even that funny. She was the kind of person you felt like you had known forever, even though it had only been a few years.

But somehow, despite all that time, you had never actually registered who she lived with. You knew she had a roommate—she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or an eye roll—but you had never put much thought into it. The guy could’ve been a faceless NPC for all you cared. Just a background character in the world of Yunjin’s apartment. Until one fateful Tuesday afternoon.

You had gone over to Yunjin’s place to work on a mind-numbing, soul-draining research paper, and the two of you were sitting cross-legged on her living room floor. The atmosphere was calm, quiet—at least, until the front door swung open with the force of someone dramatically entering a scene in a sitcom.

“YUNJIN,” a voice rang through the apartment, loud and excited. “I JUST BOUGHT ZELDA: BREATH OF THE WILD. I NEED TO PLAY IT IMMEDIATELY.”

You barely had time to process before the source of the chaos came bounding into the room. A guy, slightly breathless from what must have been a very passionate journey home, clutching a Nintendo Switch game case like it was the most important thing in the world.

And he was green.

Well, not literally—he wasn’t still covered in body paint—but your brain made the connection instantly. The excitement, the unfiltered enthusiasm, the slight air of someone who had been making questionable life decisions since birth.

It clicked.

“Oh my god,” you blurted. “You’re the Ninja Turtle guy.”

Heeseung froze mid-step, eyes flickering to you like he was only now realizing there was another person in the room. For a second, he just stared, lips parted in muted shock, like you had just caught him committing a crime.

Then, in a tone that was both confused and slightly mortified, he said, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

You squinted at him, taking in the full picture—the messy hair, the slightly wrinkled hoodie, the expression of someone who had absolutely not been expecting to relive his Halloween mistakes today. Then, you turned to Yunjin.

“You live with the Ninja Turtle guy?”

Yunjin, who had been watching this interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, grinned. “I guess.”

Heeseung cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. “For the record, my name is Heeseung.”

“Really?” you said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name was Donatello”

He looked mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “I feel like I at least deserve to know which turtle was responsible for my suffering. I thought it was Donatello.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes but played along. “Leonardo. Sunghoon was Raphael, Beomgyu was Michelangelo, and Jake was Donatello.”

You considered this for a second, then turned back to Yunjin. “I can’t believe you live with Leonardo.”

Yunjin, deadpan, replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”

And that was the second collision.

You didn’t know it then, but this was how it would always be with Heeseung—dramatic entrances, loud declarations, and an energy that burst into the room like an unexpected firework. You had met him twice now, and both times, he had been the human embodiment of chaos. But for some reason, that chaos felt a little less like a background character now. And after that day, Heeseung stopped being just Yunjin’s roommate.

You started seeing him everywhere. Not because you were seeking him out—not at first, anyway—but because he had a tendency to appear in your life like some kind of recurring side character in a sitcom. You’d be minding your own business in Yunjin’s apartment, and he’d burst through the door, ranting about how someone stole his favorite study spot in the library. You’d go to grab coffee before class, and there he’d be, dramatically arguing with the barista about why oat milk was a scam. He just kept showing up, like the universe had decided that, for better or worse, he was part of your story now.

And then, you found out you had a class together. It wasn’t a real class. Not in the sense that it required effort or critical thinking. It was one of those ridiculous elective courses that the university offered purely to fill up credit requirements—something slapped onto the catalog as an afterthought, designed for students who were too lazy or too exhausted to take anything serious.

You had signed up for it without even reading the description, choosing it solely because it fit into your schedule and had a reputation for being an easy A. Heeseung, apparently, had done the same.

That was how the two of you ended up in "The Philosophy of Memes and Internet Culture."

The class was exactly as stupid as it sounded. The professor was a guy in his late 40s who still said things like “epic fail” unironically. The syllabus included assignments like “analyzing the impact of Vine on modern humor” and “writing a 500-word essay on the evolution of the Rickroll.” It was the kind of class that could only exist in a university desperate to appear progressive and relevant, and you were 90% sure the school administration had no idea it was happening.

It was, in short, the best class either of you had ever taken.

You and Heeseung immediately became the worst students in the room. Not because you weren’t paying attention, but because you were paying attention too much—finding everything so absurdly hilarious that neither of you could take it seriously. Every lecture felt like a fever dream. Every assignment was an excuse to see how much nonsense you could get away with before the professor caught on.

And then, of course, came the group project. It was a simple assignment: pick a meme, trace its origins, and present its cultural impact. Most people chose something predictable—Doge, Grumpy Cat, Distracted Boyfriend.

You and Heeseung, however, chose Shrek. More specifically, you chose Shrek’s cultural legacy as an ironic meme figure.

It was supposed to be a joke. A way to entertain yourselves in a class that was already ridiculous. But the further you got into your research, the more serious it became.

Somewhere along the way, you and Heeseung stopped just pretending to care and actually started caring. You spent hours deep-diving into obscure Shrek forums, analyzing the rise of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” discourse, debating whether or not the character’s internet resurgence was fueled by genuine appreciation or detached irony. You became scholars of the Shrek Renaissance.

The night before your presentation, you were in Yunjin’s apartment, sitting on the floor with your laptops open, surrounded by a mess of half-empty snack bags and unfinished slides. The clock blinked 2:37 AM, and neither of you had any business still being awake.

Heeseung was slouched against the couch, staring at his screen with the expression of a man who had seen too much. “I think I know too much about Shrek,” he said, voice hollow.

You let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah. We flew too close to the sun on this one.” There was a beat of silence.

Then, Heeseung slowly turned his laptop around, revealing a slide titled ‘Shrek and the Post-Ironic Era of Internet Humor: A Critical Analysis.’ And for some reason, that was it. That was the moment you broke.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that you had just spent the past three hours watching deep-fried Shrek memes with Gregorian chants in the background. Maybe it was just the sheer, stupid absurdity of the entire situation. But suddenly, you were laughing.

Not just laughing—cackling. The kind of breathless, full-body laughter that made your stomach hurt. That made you feel like you were going to die right there on Yunjin’s living room floor, lost to the void of Shrek academia.

And Heeseung—poor, equally sleep-deprived Heeseung—was right there with you. He doubled over, gasping for air, his head nearly colliding with your shoulder as he choked out, “We’re never recovering from this.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You turned to him, trying to catch your breath, and found him already looking at you. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his whole body still shaking slightly from the aftermath. And for a moment—just a moment—you thought, this is nice.

Not just the laughing. Not just the inside jokes and the chaos.

But him.

You pushed the thought away before it could settle.

Because, at the end of the day, Heeseung was your friend. Your dumbass friend who still had green body paint under his fingernails two weeks after Halloween. Who got irrationally angry at mobile game ads. Who had just spent the last six hours dissecting Shrek memes with you like it was a matter of academic integrity.

And that was all he was.

Right?

Heeseung, on the other hand, wasn’t sure when it started. That feeling.

That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling. The one that sat quietly in the back of his mind, like a notification he refused to check. Like a waiting room. A vague, almost imperceptible awareness that he enjoyed your company a little too much—that your laugh had started to feel like background music in his life, something he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

Not that it meant anything. Obviously.

He liked lots of people. He was a social guy. He made friends easily, enjoyed being around them, and—despite Yunjin’s many accusations—was not emotionally repressed. He just… liked the things you liked. That was normal.

It was normal that he started watching that terrible reality show you always talked about, even though he swore he hated it. It was normal that he got a random impulse to buy you a weirdly specific snack he saw at the store because “it just screamed your vibe.” It was normal that he sent you voice notes every time he saw something even remotely related to Shrek, even months after your presentation.

That was just friendship. Which was why, as a friend, he invited you to an arcade.

It was one of those places that felt like it had been stuck in time since the 90s—neon lights, sticky floors, a vague smell of burnt popcorn in the air. The kind of place that probably hadn’t passed a health inspection in years, but had an undeniable charm to it. You were too good at skee-ball.

It was honestly annoying. Heeseung had challenged you three times, and each time, you had obliterated him without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. “You’re cheating,” he accused, arms crossed as he watched you land another perfect shot.

You grinned, tossing the last ball effortlessly. “You’re just mad because you suck.”

“I don’t suck,” he argued. “This game is just—rigged. The physics are all off.”

“Oh my god. Did you just say ‘the physics are off’ in a skee-ball game?”

“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “I am a man of logic and reason.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Sure. Okay. Man of logic and reason. If you’re so smart, let’s see how well you do at Dance Dance Revolution.”

Heeseung froze. “I—uh—what?”

“Come on,” you said, already dragging him toward the machine. “Let’s see those skills.”

Here was the thing about Heeseung: he was good at a lot of things. He could play video games for hours without blinking. He could talk his way out of almost any bad situation. He could even recite the entire “All Star” lyrics from memory.

But he could not dance. At all. And that became painfully clear the second the game started.

Heeseung missed every step. Every single one. While you moved effortlessly, barely even glancing at the screen, he was flailing. His feet weren’t in sync with his brain. His arms kept jerking awkwardly, and he could hear you laughing beside him, and somehow, that made it worse.

By the time the game ended, Heeseung was defeated. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping dramatically. “I think I died,” he announced.

You patted his back. “You fought bravely.”

He looked up at you then, about to retort, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Because you were smiling at him—really smiling. Your eyes were crinkled at the edges, your face still flushed from laughing. The neon lights flickered against your skin, casting everything in shades of blue and pink, making you look—

Well. Heeseung swallowed. That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling? Yeah. It was there.

But you were just his friend.

So, when Beomgyu casually mentioned, in the most offhanded, unbothered way possible, that he thought you were cute, Heeseung should’ve just let it go. But he didn’t.

“You think she’s what?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Cute. You know, in a hot way.”

Heeseung felt something in his chest twist. It was irrational. Objectively, completely irrational. Because, yeah, you were cute. That wasn’t news to him. He had eyes. He was aware. He had just… never thought about the fact that other people might also be aware.

Heeseung almost laughed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of dry, disbelieving scoff that came when someone said something so absurd it didn’t even process at first. But then, Beomgyu kept talking.

“I was thinking of asking her out.”

And Heeseung felt it. That twist, low and tight, in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked at Beomgyu, waiting for the usual rush of banter to kick in, for the easy teasing to roll off his tongue. But for some reason, his mouth felt dry. Beomgyu liked you. Beomgyu thought you were cute. Beomgyu wanted to date you.

It wasn’t that wild of a concept. People liked you all the time. You were funny and charming in that effortlessly chaotic way, the kind of person who made friends in the span of a single conversation. It made sense that Beomgyu, out of all people, would look at you and go, Yeah, she’s my type.

And it wasn’t like Heeseung had a say in the matter. So he shrugged, leaning back against the couch, and said, “Yeah, good for you, man. Good for you”

And that should’ve been the end of it. Except. Beomgyu actually did ask you out. And the worst part? You said yes.

At first, Heeseung didn’t think much of it. He was fine. It was fine.

So what if you had gone out with Beomgyu last Friday and came back looking kind of flushed, kind of happy? So what if, the next time he saw you, you had that soft, secretive look in your eyes, the one that said you were thinking about something that made your stomach twist in the good way?

So what. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t jealous. Except then it wasn’t just one date. Because you went out again. And again. And again. And suddenly, Beomgyu wasn’t just one of Heeseung’s friends anymore—he was the guy you were seeing. And that, for some reason, was so much worse.

The thing about Beomgyu was that he was annoying. Like, Heeseung had always known this, but now, for the first time in his life, it felt personal. “Dude,” Beomgyu groaned, stretching his arms behind his head as they sat in their usual spot in the campus lounge. “Y/N is so fun, bro. Like, actually so fun.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s, like… different.” Heeseung made a face. “No, I’m serious,” Beomgyu whined. “She’s not like other girls.”

I’m gonna walk into traffic, Heeseung thought.

“No, like—” Beomgyu hesitated, looking off into the distance. “She’s just cool, you know?”

And Heeseung didn’t know why that pissed him off. Maybe because he knew that already. He had always known that. He had known it before Beomgyu, before any of these dates, before whatever the hell this was.

He had known it since the night he met you. Since the moment you called him Donatello when he was, in fact, Leonardo. Since the first time you said his name with that teasing edge, like you were permanently in on some joke he didn’t even realize he was making.

So, yeah. Maybe he didn’t like hearing Beomgyu say it like he had discovered it first.

But whatever. Heeseung let it go. Because it wasn’t like this was going to last forever. And then, it didn’t.

One day, you walked into Yunjin’s apartment, kicked your shoes off in a way that sent one flying across the room, and threw yourself onto the couch with all the weight of someone carrying a great and terrible burden.

Heeseung, sitting on the floor, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, pretending he hadn’t immediately noticed you. But then, you sighed. A deep, world-weary, existentially exhausted sigh.

Yunjin looked up from where she was painting her nails. “Jesus,” she muttered. “What.”

You groaned, stuffing your face into a pillow. “I think I’m over it.”

Heeseung’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Casual. He had to be casual. So, without looking up, he mumbled, “Over what?”

Another dramatic sigh. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself. “Beomgyu.”

Heeseung blinked. Okay.

Yunjin, who had been the biggest advocate of this whole thing, frowned. “Wait, what do you mean? You were literally texting him heart emojis yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” You stretched out your legs like the weight of your own existence was exhausting you. “I just… don’t feel like it anymore.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “Like, what? He’s a hobby you got bored of?”

“No! It’s just—” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “Like, I liked the idea of him. And at first, it was fun. But then, the more time we spent together, the more I realized… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

You exhaled, shutting your eyes. “I feel like I was trying to make myself like him the way I was supposed to. But it just wasn’t working.”

And that was when Heeseung’s grip on his phone tightened. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “The way you were supposed to?”

You turned your head towards him. “Yeah. Like, Beomgyu is great, okay? He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s nice, and I should like him.” You paused, expression softening. “But every time he kissed me, I just…”

You trailed off, lost in thought. Heeseung swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure why.

Yunjin made a gagging noise. “Okay, ew. Please don’t get all sentimental about kissing Beomgyu on my couch.”

You laughed, pushing her half-heartedly with your foot. “I’m just saying—it’s not clicking. You ever get that? Like, you try to like someone, but no matter how much you do, it just doesn’t fit?”

And the way you looked at Heeseung when you asked that—like you expected him to understand—made something in his chest tighten. Because yeah. He knew exactly what that felt like. He just… couldn’t say it.

So he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back, and forced a small smirk. “Damn,” he said, voice light. “Tough loss for Beomgyu.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “Guess I’m single again.”

Something in Heeseung’s chest lurched. But he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral, easy, unfazed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t change everything.

A few weeks later, Heeseung showed up at your apartment. It was raining that day.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that soft, half-hearted drizzle that made everything look just a little bit duller. The sky was gray, the streets were damp, and Heeseung had definitely stepped into at least two puddles on his way up to your place.

Which, in his opinion, was already way too much effort just to fix your stupid kitchen cabinet.

“Okay, I just wanna say,” he announced as soon as you let him in, dragging his slightly-wet socks across your floor, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to completely detach a cabinet door, but honestly? I’m kind of impressed.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna make fun of you.” He grinned, toeing off his shoes before making his way to your kitchen. “But I’ll fix it after.”

You followed behind him, crossing your arms as you watched him inspect the broken cabinet. It wasn’t like you had meant to break it. You had simply been existing in your own kitchen, minding your own business, when the handle somehow got caught on the sleeve of your hoodie—one tug too strong, and suddenly the door was in your hands instead of on its hinges.

“I literally don’t understand how this happened,” Heeseung muttered, crouching down to assess the damage.

“Okay, handyman,” you shot back. “Can you fix it or not?”

Heeseung snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me just—” He held out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“My hands are kinda full,” he said, nodding towards the cabinet door that he was currently balancing on one knee. “Look up how to fix this real quick.”

You huffed but grabbed his phone from the counter, unlocking it without thinking as you leaned against the kitchen island. You didn’t love the idea of looking up a YouTube tutorial like some kind of DIY newbie, but considering that Heeseung was already physically here fixing your problem for you, you figured you could at least meet him halfway.

So, with one hand holding his phone, you typed "how to reattach cabinet door" into the search bar—

And then, your thumb froze. Because right there, at the top of the screen, was a notification. A message. From Chaewon. Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know who Chaewon was. Of course, you did. You weren’t stupid. Chaewon was his ex.

The one he never really talked about. The one who had, at one point, been a name you’d only heard in passing, just a piece of his past that you had no real reason to care about. Except… you did.

Because now, here she was. On his screen. Texting him. And suddenly, you felt fucking ridiculous. Because why were you even reacting like this? It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he owed you an explanation. So, then… why did it feel like this?

You forced yourself to look away from the message, pressing the YouTube link on the screen as if nothing had happened. But something had. Because when Heeseung glanced at you, waiting for your next words, you just… couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your voice didn’t sound normal. “It says you need a screwdriver.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow at your abrupt shift in tone, but he didn’t question it. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting up to grab one from his bag.

You took the moment to shove his phone back onto the counter, clenching your jaw as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest. It was fine. You were fine.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the air, slightly muffled as he rummaged through his bag. “Can you hold this while I—”

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out too fast, too stiff.

And Heeseung noticed. He glanced at you, pausing with the screwdriver halfway in his grip. “You good?”

You forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Why?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You just got all weird all of a sudden.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

You exhaled sharply, schooling your expression into something that wasn’t betrayal or insecurity or whatever dumb thing was currently buzzing inside your head. “I’m just tired.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Heeseung didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed under his breath, turning back to the cabinet as he started working again.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was irrational. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notification. The name. The way your stomach had twisted on instinct before you even had a chance to tell yourself it didn’t matter.

Because maybe… Maybe it did.

The next time you’re at Yunjin’s apartment, Heeseung isn’t there.

It’s not intentional, not entirely. Maybe there’s a small, petty part of you that’s relieved when Yunjin mentions he’s out, like the universe decided to grant you a break from the exhausting push and pull of whatever this thing is between you. But mostly, you’re just here because you always are.

There’s an old episode of some dating reality show playing in the background, and Yunjin barely glances at it as she paints her toenails a shade of red so deep it’s almost brown. You pick at the hem of your sleeve, casual, too casual, before finally asking, “Does Heeseung still see Chaewon?”

Yunjin snorts, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s heard all day. “God, I hope not.”

Something in your stomach untwists just slightly, but you don’t let the relief settle. You just raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What happened with them, anyway?”

Yunjin pauses, her brush hovering mid-air. She gives you a look. The kind that says she sees through you. The kind that makes your skin prickle with the discomfort of being known. But then she sighs, leans back against the couch, and says, “They burned out.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

Yunjin tilts her head. “You ever leave a candle burning too long?” She dips the brush back into the bottle, shaking her head. “They were good until they weren’t. And when they weren’t, it was obvious. Chaewon got tired of waiting for him to catch up.”

You frown. “Catch up?”

Yunjin shrugs. “She loved him first. And she wanted him to love her back just as fast, just as much. But Heeseung…” She sighs, blowing lightly on her nails. “Heeseung takes his time. He doesn’t fall in love all at once, he kind of… eases into it. Like the dumbass that he is.”

Your chest tightens.

Because you think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. About the way he always notices when you’re cold before you even say anything. And then you think about the way he doesn’t say anything. About the way he’s always on the edge of something, always almost.

Yunjin is watching you. You can feel it. And you know, you just know, she’s about to say something that’s going to ruin you.

So you get up, stretch your arms above your head like you can shake the weight of this conversation off your skin. “Right. Well. That was fun. Thanks for the gossip.”

Yunjin smirks. “You’re so fucking obvious.” You ignore her, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. But before you can shove it in your mouth, she says, “Heeseung’s not stupid, you know. He just doesn’t like to move until he’s sure.”

You pause. And because you’re you, and because this is Heeseung, and because everything about this whole thing is a goddamn waiting game— You pretend you don’t hear her.

And then it’s 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

You’re half-asleep, curled up in bed, the glow of your screen slicing through the darkness. You squint at it, groggy, before reading the message.

heeseung: you awake? heeseung: also. do u want mcdonalds

You blink. Then again. You type out a response with fingers that still feel half-dead from sleep.

you: is that even a question heeseung: valid. be outside in 10

And just like that, you’re stepping into your slides, and slipping out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because with Heeseung, it kind of is.

The streetlights cast long, tired shadows across the pavement, and the air is that weird mix of crisp and stale that only exists at this hour, like the city itself is pausing, caught between the last breath of night and the first inhale of morning.

Heeseung’s car rolls up exactly nine minutes later, music already playing low through the speakers. When you slide into the passenger seat, he barely even looks at you before reaching into the back and tossing you his hoodie.

“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply.

You huff, but you put it on. It smells like him—faint detergent, something vaguely woody, and the unmistakable scent of McDonald’s fries from however many late-night runs have preceded this one.

Heeseung pulls out onto the street, the familiar hum of the engine settling between you. He’s got one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, and there’s a soft shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, but he still looks… at ease.

It’s quiet for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like it needs filling.

Then, as he turns onto the main road, he says, “You ever think about how weird time is?”

You glance at him. “That’s an insane way to start a conversation.”

“I’m serious,” he laughs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Like, right now. It’s 2:30 a.m. for us, but somewhere else, it’s a normal afternoon. Someone’s getting lunch, someone’s going to work. And here we are, about to eat McNuggets in a parking lot.”

You hum. “I feel like this is your way of convincing me that time isn’t real.”

He nods solemnly. “Nothing is real.”

“Except McNuggets.”

“Exactly.”

A beat passes, the soft rumble of the tires against the road the only sound for a moment. Then, quieter, more thoughtful, Heeseung asks, “Where do you think you’ll be in a year?”

The question catches you off guard. You tilt your head, thinking. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I have plans, but… life never really goes how you expect it to, does it?”

Heeseung exhales a small laugh. “No. It really doesn’t.”

You hesitate before adding, “Where do you think you’ll be?”

He takes a moment. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, like he’s holding onto the words before letting them go. “I don’t know either.” He pauses, then glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “I just hope I’m somewhere that still feels like home.”

You feel something shift. A small, almost imperceptible weight settling between the two of you.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain isn’t fully awake yet. Or maybe it’s just him—this version of Heeseung that only exists at 2:30 a.m., the one who speaks in half-truths and unspoken things. But you suddenly feel like you understand exactly what he means.

The McDonald’s drive-thru is basically empty when you pull in. The girl at the window looks like she hates her job, and Heeseung, being Heeseung, makes it his personal mission to get her to smile.

“Are McFlurries still a scam?” he asks solemnly.

The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean, is the machine broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously.”

Heeseung sighs. “I knew it. A tragedy, really.”

Her lips twitch—just barely—but he sees it. He shoots you a triumphant look as he pulls forward.

With the food secured, he parks in a near-empty lot. There’s something about eating fast food in a car past midnight that makes it taste ten times better—something about the way the city is so still, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you and the glow of the dashboard lights.

For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional rustle of a fry bag or the quiet click of a sauce container the only noise. Then Heeseung says, “If you could live in any movie, which one would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Probably something stupid and fun. Like… a rom-com where everything works out in the end.”

Heeseung snorts. “Yeah? You want to be the main character that badly?”

“Obviously.”

He grins, dipping a fry into his BBQ sauce. “You’d be the chaotic best friend, though.”

You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask, popping a nugget into your mouth.

Heeseung leans back against the seat, thinking. “I don’t know. Something small. Quiet. One of those movies where nothing really happens, but it still makes you feel something.”

You tilt your head. “Like a waiting room.”

Heeseung turns to you. “What?”

“A waiting room,” you say, like it’s obvious. “That’s what those movies feel like. Like something is about to happen, but you don’t know what, and maybe it’s okay if nothing does.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he smiles. And it’s not his usual grin, not the teasing, lopsided smirk. It’s something smaller, softer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like a waiting room.”

Neither of you say anything after that. The city hums in the background, neon lights bleeding into the darkness, the last remnants of fries sitting forgotten between you.

And then, a party. Not the kind you remember from three years ago, not the one where you met a boy covered in green body paint who changed your life without even meaning to. But still, a party. The music is just as loud, the air just as thick with heat and laughter, the night just as full of things waiting to happen.

You’re not sure why you came. Yunjin had begged, of course, had stood in your doorway with her most dramatic expression, wailing about how you never do anything fun anymore. But even then, you could have said no. You could have curled up in your apartment, wrapped yourself in something soft and safe, ignored the way your stomach flipped when you thought, what if Heeseung is there?

But you didn’t.

And now, you’re here, standing in the middle of someone’s too-small living room, holding a lukewarm drink, feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. And then, you hear your name.

It cuts through the music, through the laughter, through the static in your brain. It pulls you toward the kitchen, toward the familiar lilt of a voice you know better than your own. And there he is. Heeseung.

Standing in front of the fridge, cracking open a beer, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans that hang just right. His hair is a little messy, his eyes a little bright, and when he sees you, he grins—that same lopsided, teasing, dangerous smile.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of whatever’s in your cup. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."

Heeseung hums, leaning against the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But he’s looking at you like it is a big deal. Like maybe he’s been waiting for you all night. Like maybe he always is.

Hours pass, the party moves around you—people spilling in and out of rooms, music shifting from one song to the next—but you and Heeseung stay where you are, orbiting around each other.

At some point, someone suggests a game. Cards, or maybe something more ridiculous—something designed to make people confess things they wouldn’t say otherwise. You should say no. You should step away before you find yourself caught in something you can’t get out of.

But you don’t. You sit next to Heeseung on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. The game starts, questions fly, people laugh. And then—

Jake turns to you. "Alright, Y/N. Who was your first college crush?"

You blink. "What?"

The group whoops in unison. Jungwon throws an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, don’t be shy."

Your throat goes dry. Your eyes flicker to Heeseung, just for a second, but it’s enough. His smirk twitches—just barely, just enough to be noticeable—and suddenly, you know you have to get out of this.

You clear your throat, reaching for your drink. "I think I’ve blocked it out," you lie.

A chorus of boos erupts, but the game moves on. The moment passes. But beside you, Heeseung is watching you, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he’s putting something together. You pretend not to notice.

Later, when the party has blurred into something soft and distant, when most people are drunk or half-asleep, when the night has stretched itself out into something too fragile to hold forever, Heeseung finds you on the balcony.

You’re leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool air, staring out at the city lights. "You hiding from me?"

You don’t turn around. "You think everything’s about you, don’t you?"

He laughs—soft, amused, something warm threading through the sound. "It usually is."

You roll your eyes, but then he’s beside you, resting his forearms on the railing, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the night air.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The music inside is muffled now, the party nothing more than background noise. The city stretches out before you, endless and alive, full of people who have no idea that this moment is happening.

And then, quietly, Heeseung asks, "You really don’t remember your first college crush?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around the railing. You exhale. "I remember."

A pause. "Yeah?"

You glance at him. He’s watching you, expression unreadable, something deep and knowing in his eyes. You swallow. "Yeah."

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and for a second, you think—Is he going to ask? Does he already know? But he doesn’t.

He just nods, looking back at the skyline, and says, "Me too."

And somehow, that’s worse. Because you think—no, you know—that he’s not talking about some early college memory, some long-forgotten infatuation.

He’s talking about you.

And for the first time, you wonder if this thing between you—this waiting, this almost, this three years of something unspoken—has been more obvious than you thought. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one waiting.

One month later. The thing about time is that it moves whether you’re ready or not. It stretches, it folds, it carries you forward even when you feel like you’re standing still.

And ever since the party, things with Heeseung have been… different. Not in an obvious way. Not in the way that people would notice, not in the way that Yunjin would tease you about over breakfast. But in the small things.

In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. In the way your stomach flips when he says your name. In the way every conversation feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something you can’t name.

Because you and Heeseung have always been close, always been drawn together like something written into the universe itself. But now? Now, it feels different. Like someone turned up the volume on something you didn’t even realize was playing in the background.

And the worst part? Neither of you are talking about it.

Instead, you’re doing what you do best—pretending. Pretending that nothing is different, that things are still light and easy, that three years of something unspoken aren’t finally starting to spill over the edges.

Until one day, when you’re sitting on Yunjin’s couch, your phone rings. It’s your mother. You hesitate before answering, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to say.

And the moment you put your phone down, you groan, collapsing onto the couch, like the weight of the conversation is physically pressing down on you. Heeseung and Yunjin are both looking at you expectantly, their attention fully on you in a way that makes you regret opening your mouth at all. But it’s too late now, so you just exhale, pressing your fingers against your temples before muttering, "My mom called."

Yunjin snorts. "Yeah, we got that much. What did she want?"

You roll your eyes, but the annoyance in your chest is directed at yourself more than anything else. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Next weekend."

Heeseung, who had been absentmindedly rolling a bottle cap between his fingers, finally glances up, eyes curious. "You going?"

"Yeah." You sigh again. "Didn’t really have a choice. If I said no, she would’ve found a way to guilt-trip me into oblivion."

Yunjin grins knowingly. "Classic mom move."

You hum in agreement, then hesitate, picking at the hem of your sleeve. "And then she made it weird," you mutter.

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s facing you more fully. "How weird?"

You pause for a second, then groan, throwing your head back. "She brought up the fact that I’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything."

Yunjin cackles. She actually leans forward, hands on her knees, cackling. "Oh my God," she wheezes. "That’s so embarrassing for you."

You glare. "Thank you, Yunjin, for your endless support."

But Heeseung doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression. "She said that?"

You nod, rubbing your temples. "Yeah. She was all, ‘You can bring someone, you know,’ and then just immediately went for the ‘You’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything,’ like I don’t already know that."

Yunjin wipes a fake tear from her eye, still far too entertained. "Damn. She really called you out like that."

"Okay," you deadpan, "I think we’ve established that this is humiliating for me. Can we move on?"

But Yunjin grins, her eyes practically glowing with mischief, and that’s when you know you should have never said anything at all. "Well," she says, stretching out the word, "if it bothers you that much… you could always bring Heeseung."

Silence.

You feel it immediately—the way the air shifts, the way your stomach twists, the way your breath catches for just a second too long. You don’t look at Heeseung. You can’t.

Instead, you scoff, shoving her shoulder. "Oh my God, shut up."

"I’m serious!" she laughs. "It makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a date. Heeseung’s around."

Heeseung is silent. And that—that’s what makes your chest tighten. Because Heeseung is never silent.

You finally force yourself to glance at him, just a flicker, just to see how he’s reacting to this. And when you do, you find him already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his fingers stilling where they had been absently playing with the bottle cap.

Something tightens in your throat. Because it’s one thing to laugh it off. It’s one thing to pretend this isn’t something charged, something delicate, something that feels like standing on the edge of something too big to name.

But Heeseung isn’t laughing.

When you open the door on the wedding day, Heeseung is already leaning against his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking entirely too good for someone who is supposed to be doing you a favor. His hair is neat but still has that slight, careless tousle to it, his sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms, and his black dress shirt is criminally well-fitted.

You try very hard not to notice any of that. But Heeseung is looking at you like you just stopped time.

It’s not obvious—he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t let his jaw drop like some kind of movie cliché—but his fingers twitch slightly where they’re resting in his pockets, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes move over you in a way that isn’t just admiration but something deeper, something heavier, something that makes your chest feel too tight.

You pretend not to notice that, either. Instead, you lift an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one foot. "You gonna open the door for me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

Heeseung blinks, snapping out of it. He clears his throat, pushing off the car, his usual smirk creeping back into place. "Right, yeah. My bad."

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm anyway. The ride starts out easy. The hum of the road fills the space between you, the occasional comment about the directions or a song playing on the radio breaking the silence.

"You, uh," Heeseung starts, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure your mom’s gonna be cool with me coming?"

You blink. "What? Yeah, of course. I already told her."

He raises an eyebrow. "You told her?"

"Yeah," you say, adjusting the hem of your dress. "I mean, I talk about you all the time, so it’s not like it’s weird or anything."

Silence. You don’t notice it at first, but when you glance over, Heeseung is staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before.

And the thing is—Heeseung is not someone who gets flustered easily. He doesn’t trip over his words, doesn’t get all weird when people talk about him. But now, he’s sitting there, completely silent, like his brain just blue-screened.

Because you talk about him all the time. To your mom. His ears burn at the thought.

Because it’s one thing to be close. It’s one thing to be your best friend, to be the person you go to for late-night McDonald’s runs and life-altering conversations on balconies. But it’s another thing entirely to know that he exists in your life even when he’s not there.

That when you’re on the phone with your mom, when you’re recounting your day, when you’re talking about the people who matter—he’s there. And it’s so stupid how much that does to him.

He coughs, forcing himself to sound normal. "Oh. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool."

You snort. "I told her you’re my friend, and that’s it."

Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Yeah. Right."

But for some reason, the word friend doesn’t sit right in his mouth.

The wedding is beautiful. Not in the over-the-top, fairytale kind of way, but in the way that feels real. The ceremony is held outdoors, the late afternoon light draping everything in gold, the air carrying the soft hum of laughter and clinking glasses. There are flowers on every table, music drifting lazily through the air, and a warmth that lingers beneath the chatter of distant relatives catching up.

And you almost forget that you’re here with Heeseung. Almost. Except—you can feel him.

You can feel him next to you at the table, the warmth of his presence settling into your skin. You can feel the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for something, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he hears you laugh.

And the worst part is that he looks good as hell.

It’s almost unfair, the way he carries himself. The way his sleeves are still rolled up, the way his shirt is slightly undone at the collar, the way he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching everything unfold like he belongs here.

And for the first time in a long time you don’t know where you stand with him.

Because this is Heeseung. The boy who sends you Shrek memes at 2 a.m. The boy who once argued with a barista about oat milk for a full five minutes. The boy who makes you laugh until you can’t breathe.

But right now? Right now, he’s something else, too. Something that makes your stomach flip. Something that makes you forget how to breathe.

The music shifts. It’s not immediate—not some grand, dramatic moment where the world slows down—but you feel it.

The moment the first notes of the song drift through the air, you feel it in your chest. Like something tightening. Like something pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel. Because you know this song. Of course you know this song. And so does he.

You don’t even have to look at Heeseung to know he recognizes it too. That he knows exactly what’s playing, that he knows how much you love her, that he knows you’ve played this song before—in his car, in your apartment, in the quiet spaces between friendship and something else.

You know he knows. And yet, he still turns to you, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of conversation. “Phoebe Bridgers,” he says.

You swallow. “Yeah.” Heeseung hums, watching you carefully. His fingers drum lightly against the table, slow and steady, in time with the beat of the song. Then, after a second—

"You should dance with me."

You blink. You blink again. Your stomach twists. “What?”

Heeseung shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “You love this song.”

Which—okay. That’s true. But this is not a song you dance to. This is a song you listen to alone, in your room, in the quiet, when it’s too late and you’re too restless and you’re thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about.

This is not a wedding song. And yet, Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like this is a dare, like he’s waiting for you to say no, to call him out, to pull away before it’s too late.

And yet, his hand is outstretched, waiting, patient, warm. And yet— You take it. You don’t think, you just do it, just let yourself be pulled. And Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to press too hard.

One hand on your waist. The other clasping yours loosely, like he’s letting you decide how close to be. Like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and push him away and say, ‘This is so stupid’.

But you don’t. You just breathe. You just exist here, in this moment, with him.

If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed

Your throat tightens. Because God, this song.

Because you know every lyric by heart, because you know what it means, because there’s something about it that always makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of something you’ll never quite have.

And now, here you are, dancing to it with him.

Heeseung exhales softly, tilting his head toward you. “You ever think about that?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

His fingers twitch slightly against your waist. “How music reminds you of people.”

Your stomach flips. Because of course you do. Of course, you think about it. Of course, this song, this moment, this whole damn night is going to be tied to him now, forever, no matter what happens after.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think about it.”

Heeseung hums, like that makes sense. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Then—

"Does this song remind you of me?"

Your breath catches. The air between you thickens.

Because that shouldn’t be a question. Because he already knows the answer. Because you’re standing here with him, swaying to a song that makes your chest ache, and you know, you know he hears the lyrics just as clearly as you do.

I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound normal. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Heeseung laughs, soft, breathless. And God, you hate him.

You hate the way he makes everything feel like a game, like he’s always hovering right at the edge of something and waiting for you to push him over. You hate that it’s working.

And when broken bodies are washed ashore—who am I to ask for more?

You shiver. Because this is the part of the song that gets to you every time. Because who are you to ask for more?

Who are you to ask for something that maybe, just maybe, was never meant to be yours? But then Heeseung, of all people, says “I think this song reminds me of you, too.”

Your heart stops. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

This doesn’t feel like something you can laugh off. Because Heeseung is serious.

Because his hand is still on your waist, his fingers still brushing against the fabric of your dress, his breath still warm against your cheek, and you don’t know how to go back from this. You don’t know if you want to.

Heeseung shifts slightly, his grip tightening for just a second. “You ever think about it?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

Heeseung hesitates, his eyes flickering over your face. His jaw tightens—just barely.

"Us."

Your stomach drops.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s nothing, like it’s a passing thought, like he hasn’t just destroyed your entire world in one syllable. Us. The word sits heavy in the air between you, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you didn’t hear.

Heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, doesn’t do anything to make this easier for you. He just keeps holding you, keeps swaying with you, keeps waiting—like he has all the time in the world.

You want to say something.

You want to throw your head back and laugh it off, tell him he’s being ridiculous, tell him to stop playing with you. You want to scoff and roll your eyes and pretend that the thought of you and Heeseung has never crossed your mind, that it hasn’t been haunting you for years, that it hasn’t been living under your skin since the first time he looked at you like you were something worth remembering.

But you can’t. Because this is Heeseung. Because he knows you too well, because he’d hear the lie in your voice, because there is nowhere left to hide when he’s looking at you like this.

So instead, you stall. You breathe in, slow and careful, and say, "What about us?"

It’s a cheap move. A pathetic attempt at deflection. And Heeseung knows it.

He exhales, the ghost of a laugh slipping past his lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. "You know what I mean."

You glance down at your hands, the way your fingers are still laced together with his, the way your other hand rests so easily on his shoulder, like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before. And maybe you have.

Maybe you and Heeseung have always been dancing around each other like this. Maybe you’ve just never let yourself notice. The song keeps playing, keeps taunting you, keeps threading its meaning between your ribs, pulling you closer and closer to something you don’t know how to name.

I wanna make you drive all night just because I said, maybe you should come over

You let out a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "We’re friends, Heeseung."

He hums. "Yeah. We are."

But he doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t drop his hand from your waist, doesn’t step back into the safe distance you’re used to. He stays. And that’s the part that gets you.

Because if he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t be holding you like this. If he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.

You glance up at him again, searching, waiting for him to say something else, to give you an out, to change the subject, to laugh and let it go. But he doesn’t. He just watches you. And suddenly, you feel exposed in a way you never have before.

Like every late-night conversation, every half-smile, every almost has been leading here, to this moment, to this song, to this feeling that you don’t know how to escape. You force yourself to swallow.

"Why are you asking me this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, considering you, considering his words.

"Because I think about it, too."

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulder. Your heart slams against your ribs.

You feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just this. To the space between your bodies, to the way he’s looking at you, to the fact that he thinks about it, too.

Heeseung’s fingers twitch slightly against yours, but he doesn’t let go. He’s watching you with this careful intensity, like he’s waiting for something, like he’s giving you the chance to decide what happens next.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know what happens next.

Because you’ve spent years existing in this strange, untouchable place with him, in this in-between, in this waiting room of a relationship that never moves forward but never lets you leave either.

And now, suddenly, here you are. Standing on the edge of something irreversible.

She'll be the best you ever had if you let her

Your heart stumbles. Because this song knows too much.

Because this song feels too much like the two of you, like something ripped from your ribs and put into lyrics, like a truth you weren’t ready to confront. And maybe—just maybe—Heeseung feels it, too.

Because he leans in. Just a little. Just enough.

Not enough to cross the line, not enough to destroy the thing you’ve built, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, enough that the scent of him—clean soap, something faintly woodsy, something entirely him—wraps around you.

Enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. And God, you do.

But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Because you don’t know what happens when you let this become real.

Because Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like he could ruin you if he wanted to, like he’s giving you the chance to ruin him first.

I know it's for the better

You exhale, too shaky, too uneven. And Heeseung notices.

His gaze flickers, barely, to your lips, to the space between you, to the way you haven’t moved away from him yet. And then his jaw clenches.

Like he’s just realized how close you are. Like he’s just realized this is about to happen if neither of you stop it. And that’s the thing, neither of you stop it.

Not immediately. Not when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. Not when your grip on his shoulder trembles just a little. Not when the air between you stretches so thin it might snap in half.

Not until you hear, Know it’s for the better…

The song starts to fade. The moment fractures. And just like that, you both pull away.

Not much. Just an inch, a breath, a single second too late. But it’s enough.

Enough for reality to settle back in. Enough for the noise of the wedding to come rushing back, for the chatter and laughter and clinking glasses to remind you where you are, who you are, what you almost did.

And Heeseung, he knows it, too. You see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way he blinks hard, in the way he forces himself to take a step back, to drop his hand from your waist, to roll his shoulders like he can shake off whatever just happened between you.

The song ends. And neither of you say a word.

And three months later, silence.

At first, it’s subtle—just a missed text here, a conversation that doesn’t last as long as it used to, an inside joke that no longer lands the way it should. But then it becomes something else. Something colder. Something that feels less like a pause and more like a choice.

And that’s what happened to you and Heeseung.

You didn’t stop talking completely. That would have been too obvious, too final, too much like admitting that something had shifted beyond repair. You still sent the occasional meme, still ran into each other at Yunjin’s, still had conversations that skimmed the surface of what they used to be.

But it was different. The late-night McDonald’s runs stopped. The effortless teasing felt strained. The ease of being around each other—the one thing you never questioned—was suddenly gone.

Neither of you did anything about it. You let it happen. Because it was easier that way.

Because acknowledging it meant admitting that something had changed, that you had gotten too close, that something had almost happened that night at the wedding. And you weren’t ready to admit that.

You weren’t ready to ask if Heeseung had almost kissed you, or if you had almost kissed him, or if you had both just been caught in some stupid, fleeting moment that meant nothing at all. So, you didn’t.

And now, three months later, all that’s left is silence.

The rain comes down in sheets, heavy and relentless, drumming against the windows of your apartment. You sit curled up on your couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. The storm had rolled in an hour ago, sudden and unforgiving, and now the whole city feels swallowed by it, the streetlights barely visible through the downpour.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s too late, too stormy, too much of a nothing kind of night for visitors.

But something in you knows—before you even open the door, before you even take that first breath—that it’s him.

And it is. It’s Heeseung.

Standing in your doorway, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing unevenly like he just ran here.

You freeze. "Heeseung?"

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, desperate, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. His clothes are damp, sticking to his frame, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his expression that gets you.

Like something is breaking inside of him. Like something has already broken.

“I can’t—” His voice catches, hoarse and raw, and then he shakes his head, like words are failing him, like they’re too small for what he’s trying to say.

Your heart is pounding. “Heeseung, what are you—”

"I can’t stop thinking about you."

The words crash into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare.

Heeseung swallows hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he’s trying to find a way to make you understand.

"I’ve tried," he continues, voice shaking. "I really, really tried. But you’re always there. You’re in every song I hear, in every dumb inside joke, in every single thing that happens to me. I see something stupid and my first thought is always, ‘Y/N would think that’s hilarious.’ I go to text you and then I stop because I don’t know if I’m supposed to anymore. I—"

He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “I thought if I just gave it time, it would go away. I thought I could just—move past it. But I still feel like I’m standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen.”

Your throat is tight. “Heeseung—”

“I miss you,” he interrupts, pushing forward, stepping into your space like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door on him if he doesn’t. "I miss you so much it’s making me lose my goddamn mind."

Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You should say something. You should do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, staring at him, your body frozen in place. And Heeseung just keeps talking.

"I don’t know how to be your friend anymore," he admits, wrecked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to sit next to you and act like I don’t want more. I don’t know how to look at you and pretend that you’re not the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. I don’t know how to listen to that fucking song without remembering the way you looked at me that night."

The air is too thick. Your vision is blurring.

Heeseung breathes out a shaky, desperate laugh, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the worst part?" He meets your eyes, and it destroys you. "I don’t think I want to stop thinking about you."

And that’s it.

That’s what breaks you. That’s what makes you move.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.

You step forward, grab the front of his stupid wet shirt, and kiss him.

The storm rages outside. And for the first time in three years, neither of you pull away.

The moment your lips crash into his, Heeseung stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but then he’s pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting for this forever.

His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. And you grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, like if you let go, the moment might shatter around you.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, like he’s relieved, like this is something he’s needed more than breathing itself. He tilts his head, deepening it, and you melt into him, the heat of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

It’s surreal, familiar and foreign all at once, like stepping into a dream you’ve had before but never been able to hold onto. Because this is Heeseung. The boy who has always been by your side, the boy who has spent years making you laugh until your stomach hurts, the boy who has always been a constant in your life.

But now, he’s something else too. Now, he’s the only thing you can feel. And that’s the strangest part, how utterly consuming this is. Because your brain is struggling to keep up, still caught in the absurdity of it—Heeseung is kissing me, I’m kissing Heeseung, this is happening, this is happening.

And then he moves forward, stepping into the apartment fully, finally, his hands still tangled in your hair, still refusing to let you go. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound almost lost beneath the roar of the storm outside.

Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. His lips find yours again, his hands skimming over your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this. And you can’t breathe. Because this isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever had before.

You’ve kissed people you liked. You’ve kissed people you thought you could love. But you have never, never felt this. This heat, this ache, this impossible, indescribable pull. Like your entire life has been leading up to this moment.

Like every other kiss you’ve had before this was just a poor imitation of what it was supposed to feel like. And that’s terrifying. Because how do you go back after this? How do you pretend this doesn’t mean something?

Heeseung exhales against your lips, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. Like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s struggling just as much as you are to make sense of this.

You should stop. You should pull away, take a breath, process. But you can’t.

Because he tilts his head, kisses you deeper, and suddenly, you’re walking backward without realizing it, your body moving on instinct, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you steady. Heeseung follows, one hand sliding down to rest against the small of your back, guiding you without thinking, without hesitation.

Your legs hit the couch. You stumble slightly, your balance faltering for the first time, and Heeseung, on pure reflex, catches you. His hands tighten instantly, pulling you against him, steadying you before you can fall.

But the movement leaves zero space between you. You can feel everything, his chest rising and falling against yours, the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled into the fabric of your shirt.

His breath brushes against your lips, his nose bumping against yours as you both hover, just for a moment, just long enough to realize how close you are, just long enough to make it worse.

Before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you kiss him again. This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not about the rush, the adrenaline, the storm raging outside. This time, it’s about everything else.

About the way his hands move carefully now, like he’s trying to remember every single detail, about the way he tilts his head slightly to fit his mouth against yours like he’s done this a thousand times in his head, about the way he lets out a soft, wrecked sound when you slide your fingers up into his still-damp hair. And you’re drowning in him.

You fall back onto the couch, pulling him with you, and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion beside you, the other still gripping your waist, his fingers trembling just slightly against your skin.

His lips leave yours only for a second, just long enough for him to breathe, just long enough for his eyes to flicker over your face, like he’s trying to memorize you at this moment.

And then, so softly you almost don’t hear it—

“Tell me you want this.”

Your breath catches. Because God, you do. You do. You always have. So you don’t say anything. You just pull him down and kiss him again.

The weight of him settles over you, his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once—on your waist, your ribs, twitching like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you long enough to decide.

It's overwhelming. His warmth, his scent, the soft, unsteady breaths he exhales between kisses, the way his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt just slightly, just enough to brush against bare skin. It’s careful. Hesitant. Like he’s testing something fragile.

Heeseung groans softly, his grip tightening, his lips parting against yours in a way that sends a full-body shiver down your spine. His hands move up your sides, down to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes like he wants to commit this exact moment to memory. You arch just slightly, chasing his warmth, and the movement makes Heeseung suck in a sharp breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You laugh, breathless, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “That’s dramatic.”

His lips graze yours again, barely there, just enough to drive you insane. “You have no idea.”

And you could stay here forever—wrapped up in him, in his weight, in the way his lips brush over your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

He shifts just slightly, pressing more of his weight into you, his thigh slipping between yours, and your breath catches. Heeseung notices immediately. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his grip on your waist tightens, in the way he exhales shakily against your cheek.

You don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air changes. Slows. Thickens. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore. Suddenly, it’s so much more than that. It’s every feeling you’ve been ignoring, every second of the past three years, every single moment leading up to this one catching up to you all at once.

And Heeseung feels it too. Because he pulls back, just a little, just enough to look at you properly, his expression wrecked. His fingers brush against your cheek, light, careful, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. Like he’s scared of what happens if you don’t.

You stare up at him, breathless, your pulse pounding in your ears, and— God, he’s beautiful.

His hair is still damp from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look softer. His lips are kiss-bruised, parted slightly as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You exhale slowly, one hand sliding down his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs, and he shudders. You know what this means. You know there’s no going back after this. So you whisper—soft, shaky, everything all at once—

"Heeseung."

And that’s all it takes.

Heeseung exhales—a shaky, uneven breath, like he’s barely holding himself together. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your waist, his body still hovering over yours. Then, softly, barely above a whisper—

"Say my name again."

Your stomach flips. You don’t, not at first. Because you feel lightheaded, because this is Heeseung, because what the hell is happening right now?

But Heeseung isn’t impatient. He doesn’t push. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath catches in your throat. And then, carefully, deliberately, he grabs your wrist.

Your breath hitches as he lifts your hand, as he guides it slowly, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. You can feel it. His heartbeat. It’s slamming against his ribs, too fast, too unsteady, completely out of control.

You stare at your hand, at where it rests over his racing pulse, at the way his skin burns beneath your touch. Heeseung swallows hard.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, wrecked.

And you do, because it’s all you can feel, because it’s like his entire body is responding to you, and you nod, your fingers twitching slightly against his shirt.

Heeseung lets out a breath like he’s relieved, like he needed you to know this, to feel this, to understand what you do to him. Then, slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, he leans down, brushing his lips against the curve of your jaw. You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he moves lower, pressing the softest, slowest kiss to the side of your neck. Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your pulse hammering beneath your skin, and he feels it.

“Heeseung,” you breathe, and it’s embarrassing how it comes out, a little too soft, a little too needy, like you’re already losing yourself in him.

He shudders, letting out a sharp breath. “Fuck—”

Then, his teeth graze your pulse point, and you gasp, back arching instinctively into him. Your hips shift beneath his, your hands moving without thinking, fingers grasping at the hem of his hoodie, your skin itching for more of him, more warmth, more of everything.

Heeseung lets you. He lets you push the fabric up, lets you brush your fingers over the bare skin of his stomach, lets you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. He exhales a groan, head dropping to your shoulder like you’ve just taken the breath right out of him.

He murmurs your name, voice strangled, his fingers digging into your waist as if you’ve completely unraveled him. You suck in a breath, your hands still fisting his hoodie.

“I want to hear you,” he admits, so quietly, like he almost wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “I want to—”

He cuts himself off with another soft groan as you push the hoodie all the way up, your fingers skimming over his bare chest before you finally tug it over his head. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you barely register it.

Because Heeseung is above you, half-naked, breathing heavy, flushed, and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just stare up at him, breathless, waiting. And then, finally, you whisper—

"Heeseung, tell me what you want."

Heeseung exhales sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers still pressing into your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, steady himself, like he’s trying not to lose his mind completely.

His hand slides up, fingertips grazing your ribs, slow and deliberate, and you shudder beneath him. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, his touch gentle but knowing, and he meets your eyes, and God, he looks ruined.

"I want—" He starts, but then he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, like this is too much, like you are too much. His hands are still moving, still exploring, still teasing at the fabric of your shirt, still making your body burn in ways you’ve never felt before. "I want all of you."

Your stomach flips. Because he’s not even touching you properly, and yet it’s the way he says it, the weight of his voice, the truth in it, that makes your pulse stutter.

And then, before you can respond, before you can tease him for how wrecked he sounds, his hands move, slow and deliberate. Fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, knuckles skimming over your stomach, over your ribs, over every single inch of skin he reveals as he goes.

Your breath stutters, your body arching up into his touch. His jaw clenches, his lips part, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing featherlight, open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he slowly tugs your shirt over your head.

And then, finally, your shirt joins his hoodie on the floor. And suddenly, you’re both bare and breathless, staring at each other like you don’t know what to do next, even though you both know exactly what’s about to happen.

"Heeseung," you whisper, and his eyes flicker, dark, burning, like your voice alone is enough to unravel him.

"You’re not making this easy," he murmurs, his fingers skimming up your sides, his thumb brushing along your ribs, his body pressing down just slightly, just enough to feel how perfectly he fits against you.

Your breath catches. "Good."

And that ruins him. Heeseung groans, low and deep, and then he’s leaning down again, lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every single second. His voice is strained, thick with something raw, something undeniable.

"You feel so good."

You whimper at his words, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Heeseung reacts immediately, his hips pressing down, his body slotting perfectly against yours, his breath catching as he feels you, all of you, right there beneath him.

"Shit," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You’re both breathless now, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between you, every single movement sending heat crashing through your veins. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

Your heart stumbles. Because neither of you were supposed to say it. Neither of you were supposed to acknowledge it. But now—it’s out there. And there’s no taking it back.

And then Heeseung looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes, dark and hooded with something deeper than just desire, trace every inch of your face, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven beneath him.

“You’re…” He swallows hard, his voice thick with something close to reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

His hands move lower, squeezing your thighs before dragging up again, pushing your legs further apart beneath him. Heeseung exhales sharply, his pupils blown wide as he takes in the way you look beneath him, flushed, needy, completely and utterly his for the taking.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, thick with barely restrained need. “You’re perfect.”

His mouth finds your collarbone, lips hot and insistent as he moves lower, tasting, worshiping. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucks, leaving a mark. His fingers dig into your skin as he rolls his hips down against yours, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. He watches, fascinated, as your body reacts to his, as your fingers clutch at his arms, as your lips part with another breathy whimper that shoots straight through his bloodstream.

“You like that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to your ear, his voice nothing but a low rasp. “Like feeling me this close?” You nod, but it’s not enough. Heeseung needs to hear you say it. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers tightening just enough to make you squirm.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath.

Heeseung smirks against your skin, the sound of your desperation fueling the heat building between you. “Good.” His lips trail back down, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Heeseung hovers over you, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. His fingers toy with the fabric at your hips, teasing. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and laced with restraint.

“Can I take these off?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the sight of him like this—his lips swollen, his gaze dark with barely contained desire, sends a shiver down your spine. Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly as you whisper, “Yes.”

And the second the word leaves your lips, Heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back this whole time. His hands move with deliberate slowness, sliding under the waistband, his fingers warm and firm against your hips as he starts to pull your pants down.

His hands guide your pants lower until they slip past your thighs, pooling somewhere near your ankles, and he takes his time, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along the soft skin of your lower belly, just above the edge of your underwear.

He groans against your skin, his voice husky. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

His hands splay over your thighs, his lips follow the same path, pressing kisses, biting gently, dragging his tongue across the warmth of your skin as he moves lower. You let out a shaky breath as he spreads your legs just a little more, his fingers gripping, massaging, his lips marking every inch of your inner thighs as he inches closer to where you need him most.

Heeseung hums against your skin, his breath hot, teasing. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration, with hunger. His hands squeeze your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch slightly. “So perfect.”

His lips brush dangerously close to the edge of your underwear, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive skin just beside it, inhaling deeply like he wants to drown in you. His grip tightens. His lips part, and he looks up at you.

The sight of him between your legs, hair messy, lips swollen, his dark eyes filled with something you can’t quite name—it’s almost too much.

His voice is thick, teasing but affectionate. “You’re shaking,” he notes, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh in slow, soothing circles.

Your breath catches. “Because of you.”

Heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping tighter, his lips trailing higher again, back to your hip, back to your stomach, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You have no idea how much I love hearing that,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, he starts to move up. His fingers slide up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, like he needs to feel every part of you, like he’s grounding himself in your presence. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for the briefest second, like he’s gathering himself, like he’s trying to hold back.

“I need to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice nothing but a raw, desperate rasp. “Please.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers gripping onto his arms, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth is, you want this just as much.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.

Your pulse is a pounding rhythm against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with heat, but somehow, you manage to find your voice.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening for just a second before he’s moving again, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His hands slide back down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

And then he’s sinking back down between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands parting your legs with a reverence that makes your head spin.

Heeseung grips the hem of your underwear between his fingers, his breathing ragged, his hands slightly trembling as he looks up at you. His eyes search yours, dark and full of something raw. “Can I?” His voice is hushed, reverent, like a prayer whispered into the silence.

Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as you nod. “Yes,” you murmur.

Heeseung exhales, almost like he’s relieved, like he was afraid you’d stop him. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he slides the fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he does, his touch both featherlight and electric.

And then he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening slightly around your thighs as he takes you in. His gaze, hooded and heavy with admiration, rakes over you like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice almost disbelieving.

The way he’s looking at your body, so intense, so completely captivated, sends a flush of heat racing up your spine. Your instincts kick in, your legs twitching slightly as the urge to close them overtakes you. But Heeseung doesn’t let you.

His hands move quickly, firm but gentle as he grips your thighs, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitches, your whole body thrumming under his touch. Heeseung leans in, lips ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath hot against your already burning skin. He looks up at you again, his eyes locking onto yours, and what he says next sends a sharp pulse of anticipation straight through your core.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises, his voice low, edged with something sinful. “So good that you’ll never forget me.”

And then he dips down. The first press of his mouth against your clit is enough to steal the air from your lungs. Warm, wet, hungry—Heeseung doesn’t just touch, he devours. His tongue moves slow at first, tasting you, savoring every single reaction you give him.

You gasp, arching against him, your body already trembling from the sheer intensity of his touch. Heeseung groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, sending shockwaves up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he keeps you exactly where he wants you.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your heat. “Just like I knew you would.”

Your moans come freely now, breathy, desperate, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as Heeseung works you open with his mouth. He hums against you, pleased, lost in you, whispering praise between every stroke of his tongue. “So good for me.” Kiss. “So fucking perfect.” Lick. “You’re mine.” Suck.

And when you whimper his name, broken and pleading, Heeseung only grips your thighs tighter and pulls you even closer, determined to ruin you completely.

Heeseung groans against you, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking, licking, savoring you like he’s starving. Then, slowly, he moves one hand between your legs, his fingers tracing a teasing path through your slick folds. You shudder, your hips instinctively bucking at the sensation, and Heeseung chuckles, a low, rough sound against your skin.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before glancing up at you through dark lashes. “So fucking perfect.”

And then he presses a finger inside you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his touch both gentle and utterly devastating as he sinks into your heat. You gasp sharply, your walls fluttering around him, and Heeseung groans, low and guttural.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way you take him in. His finger curls inside you, testing, feeling. “You’re so tight, baby.”

The words send another wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening at the sheer hunger in his voice. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he eases his finger in deeper as he continues working you open, his tongue never once leaving your clit. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his hair, and Heeseung groans again, the sound muffled as he devours you, the heat of his mouth sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“Heeseung—” His name slips from your lips, breathless, desperate.

Heeseung growls against you, deep and possessive, and you swear you can feel the sound reverberate through your entire body. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, his finger thrusting deeper, curling, coaxing pleasure out of you with every calculated stroke.

And then he adds a second finger. Your body tenses, the stretch just enough to make you whimper, and Heeseung groans at the way you clench around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, his voice thick, raspy, dripping with admiration. “So fucking perfect for me.”

His lips wrap around your clit again, sucking hard, and your body seizes, heat curling so tight inside you that you can’t hold back any longer. Heeseung feels it, and he sucks harder, pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you still as your moans turn into cries, your body trembling beneath him.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me feel it.”

And you do. The pleasure slams into you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your body locks up, your thighs trembling around his head. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you as you fall apart beneath him.

Your body shudders, aftershocks rippling through you, and Heeseung finally slows, his touch turning soft, reverent, as he presses one last lingering kiss to your sensitive clit before pulling back.

He looks up at you then, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged. And then he smirks, his voice low and utterly wrecked.

“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

You smile softly, but before you can even reach for him, he moves, fast, precise. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he manhandles you, lifting you effortlessly off the couch, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that sends a shiver through your entire body. His hold on you is strong, unwavering, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s afraid to let go.

You cling to him, your arms locking around his shoulders as he carries you with ease, moving through the dimly lit apartment. Your lips find his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, inhaling his scent. The closeness, the heat between your bodies, makes you whimper softly against his throat.

And Heeseung groans. A low, deep sound that rumbles in his chest as he grips you tighter, his pace quickening like he’s growing just as desperate as you are.

Because this isn’t just anyone. This is Heeseung.

The boy who has been stitched into your life for years, who has laughed with you, argued with you, known you in ways no one else has. This is the person you love most in the world—and you’re finally having him like this for the first time. The thought makes you cling to him even harder, your lips trailing messily along his jaw, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.

When Heeseung reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He kneels onto the bed with you still wrapped around him, letting your back sink into the soft mattress as he gently lays you down, his body hovering over yours.

His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, his gaze deep, searching. His Bambi-like eyes, so wide, so full of something tender, something real, hold you in place more than his body ever could.

His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly loosen, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your skin. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s realizing, holy shit, this is happening.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his belt. The soft sound of the buckle unfastening fills the space between you, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down, revealing his bare skin, the strong lines of his toned body, every inch of him that you’ve never seen before but already crave more than anything.

You exhale sharply, your eyes dragging over him, admiring the way the soft glow of your bedroom light casts shadows over his sculpted stomach, the definition in his arms, the sharp cut of his hips. He’s breathtaking. And every second that passes, the ache inside you grows, the need twisting tighter and tighter.

You swallow hard, your voice soft but certain when you finally whisper, “I didn’t know I needed you this much until now.”

Heeseung stills. For a moment, his breath catches, his fingers twitching where they rest against your skin. The flush that spreads across his cheeks, blooming down his neck, his lips part slightly, his eyes flickering between yours, something breaking, something giving way inside him.

Then he looks down at you again. And this time, his gaze is molten. Dark, intense, filled with something raw and unfiltered as he leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.

“I think,” he whispers, his voice low, breathless, “I’ve always needed you like this.”

And then he kisses you. Deep, slow, pouring everything into it, every ounce of longing, every unsaid word, every moment spent waiting for this. His hands roam, tracing the curves of your body, feeling, memorizing.

The moment you feel him, thick and hard against your aching core, you let out a soft, needy moan against his lips. Heeseung still has his underwear on, but the heat of him, the way his hips press down, grinding slowly against you, makes your body arch instinctively, chasing the friction.

Heeseung groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, before he soothes the sting with a slow, lingering kiss.

Your hands wander, trailing down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm ridges of his toned stomach, lower, until your fingers reach the waistband of his underwear.

Your breathing is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation as you whisper, “Please, take this off.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, his body tensing above you. He doesn’t want to tease you, doesn’t want to drag this out. He wants you just as much, he needs you just as badly. Without hesitation, he pushes his underwear down, freeing himself completely. The air between you thickens, the weight of the moment settling in as his bare body hovers over yours, his skin flushed, his muscles taut with restraint.

You lean in, hands splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. Your fingers trace every inch of him, his collarbones, the defined lines of his stomach, the dip of his lower abdomen, moving lower. But before you can go further, Heeseung catches your wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and searching as he looks at you.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I need to ask you…” He swallows hard, his thumb brushing slow circles against your wrist, like he’s grounding himself in your touch. “Are you totally sure?”

Your chest tightens at the rawness in his voice. His expression—so open, so vulnerable—makes your heart clench.

“Because once this happens,” he continues, his forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m not ever letting you go.”

And there it is. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare between you. This isn’t just a night of pleasure. This isn’t just a long-overdue release. This is everything.

Your lips part, your throat tightening with emotion, and for a second, you can only stare at him, overwhelmed by how much he means to you, how deeply you feel this. Then you whisper, with more certainty than you’ve ever had about anything in your life:

“I’ve never been so sure about something before.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Heeseung. His entire body tenses for a beat, then he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s just now letting himself believe this is real.

And then he kisses you. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, possessive, filled with all the pent-up emotions neither of you ever dared to voice until now.

His hands slide up your arms, capturing your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you deeper into the mattress. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.

And then you feel it, the tip of his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance, so achingly close. Heeseung breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. He looks down between you, his jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly on your wrists as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all his life.

His voice is nothing but a hushed rasp when he says: “Tell me if it hurts.”

Heeseung lets go of your wrists, his hands sliding down your body with a deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his palms. His fingers find your hips, gripping them gently before one hand moves lower, wrapping around the base of his cock.

He watches you carefully, his gaze dark, hungry, yet filled with something soft, something almost reverent, as he presses the tip against your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he rolls his hips slightly, dragging himself against your slick folds, teasing, his length brushing against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sends a shiver through you, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as your fingers dig into his biceps, your body tensing in anticipation.

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening around himself as he watches the way your body reacts to him. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re so wet… so fucking perfect for me.”

Your nails sink deeper into his skin as he finally begins to press inside, the stretch slow and steady, filling you inch by inch. The feeling is overwhelming, him, thick and hot, splitting you open so exquisitely that all you can do is moan softly against his shoulder, your body trembling beneath him.

Heeseung curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he stills, letting you adjust. His hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs, your waist, gripping you firmly like he’s afraid to let go.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “So fucking good, baby.”

His words send another rush of heat straight through your core, and you can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, taking him even deeper. Heeseung groans at the feeling, his lips parting against your skin.

He lifts his head, searching your face, his eyes filled with both need and restraint. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly over your hip. “Can I move?”

You nod quickly, breathless, your fingers tracing over the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, needing him closer. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Heeseung exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips as he begins to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Your breath stutters, a moan slipping from your lips, and Heeseung loses it.

His movements quicken, his hips snapping against yours, his grip turning bruising as he holds you in place, thrusting deeper, harder. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving, and with every stroke, he sinks further into you, like he’s trying to become a part of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “You’re taking me so fucking well. So perfect for me.”

His lips find your jawline, tracing a path down your neck, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin before he sucks, leaving a mark, claiming you in every way possible. Your moans grow louder, your body arching against him, and Heeseung groans, loving the way you respond to him, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His lips travel lower, over your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts. He kisses, licks, nips, worshiping every inch of you as he keeps thrusting into you, each movement deep and unrelenting.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked, possessive. “Only mine.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he pounds into you, his pace growing desperate, wild, his body completely losing control in you. And all the while, he praises you. “Tighter than I ever imagined.” Thrust “So fucking beautiful.” Kiss “You feel like heaven, baby.” Groan.

His words, his touch, his everything push you closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure coils tightly inside you, ready to snap. And Heeseung feels it. He knows you’re close. And he’s not stopping until he sends you over the edge.

Your body trembles beneath him, pleasure curling tight inside you, hot and overwhelming. Your fingers cling desperately to his skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself against the way he moves, deep, unrelenting, perfect.

“Heeseung—” Your voice is breathless, wrecked. Your nails dig into his back as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “God, you feel so good.”

Heeseung groans at your words, his hips stuttering for just a second before he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he rasps, voice dripping with praise, with something darker, something possessive.

And that’s when you snap. The coil inside you tightens dangerously, winding so tight you know you’re seconds from breaking. But you don’t want to break, not yet.

So, with the last shred of control you have left, you grab Heeseung by the side of his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair, holding him in place. “Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice thick with desperation. “Please.”

Heeseung growls. A deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver through your entire body. His fingers dig into your hips, his thrusts faltering for a moment as your request sinks in. Then, he moves. In one smooth motion, Heeseung shifts, rolling over and pulling you with him. The world tilts, and suddenly, you’re on top, straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you.

A sharp, choked moan leaves your lips as you feel him fully, the angle changing, the sensation making your entire body tremble.

“Fuck,” Heeseung groans beneath you, his hands flying to your waist, holding you steady as his eyes drag over your body, your heaving chest, the flush painting your skin, the way you’re clenching around him, barely able to contain yourself.

His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire expression wrecked with need. “You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick, reverent.

His hands move, Heeseung slides them up your torso, fingers splaying across your ribs before catching your breasts in both hands, squeezing, worshiping. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and the sensation sends another jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you whimper.

“You’re so delicious,” he groans, his thumbs circling your hardened peaks, his hips rolling up slightly into you, making you gasp.

Your head tilts back, your hands bracing against his chest, your body arching into his touch. The heat between you is unbearable, your body already on the edge, but you refuse to let this end too soon.

You start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips in a deliberate, teasing rhythm, feeling every inch of him stretch and fill you completely. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, pleasure pooling deep in your stomach as you watch Heeseung’s reaction.

Heeseung groans, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose control too soon. His head tilts back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths as he tries to contain himself.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His hands flex on your thighs, squeezing, like he’s trying to hold back, like the feeling of you around him is too much.

But then he opens his eyes, and the second his gaze locks onto you, dark and hooded with raw, unfiltered hunger, your whole body burns. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, sweat glistening along his collarbones as he watches you move above him, taking him so perfectly, so effortlessly.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he groans, his voice rough, biting down his lips, barely above a whisper. “Just like that, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, making you clench tighter around him. Heeseung feels it, and his breath hitches, his fingers twitching against your skin.

One of his hands moves from your thigh, sliding up your body, tracing along your stomach, your ribs, before finding the back of your neck. He grips you there, firm but gentle, and pulls you down until your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his.

His other hand stays on your thigh, stroking, soothing, before he snaps. A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hands guiding your movements. The pleasure intensifies, your thighs burning with the effort, but Heeseung doesn’t let you slow down.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he takes control. And then he slams into you. A sharp, broken moan escapes your lips as he thrusts up, driving deeper, harder, filling you so completely that you swear you might lose your mind.

“That’s it,” he groans, his grip unrelenting as he pounds into you, chasing the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

His voice, deep, rough, dripping with praise, sends you spiraling, pleasure building, your body trembling under his relentless pace. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin between ragged breaths. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your sweat, and then his teeth graze your pulse point, his lips closing around it as he sucks.

Your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching against his, your moans coming faster, higher, completely overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you.

Heeseung doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay deep, hard, relentless, his grip unyielding as he drives into you, chasing the pleasure building between you both. His hands remain at the back of your neck, keeping you close, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breath hot against your skin.

He groans, voice wrecked, rough. “Fuck—baby, you feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

His words send another wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your thighs tighten around his hips. You’re close, you can feel yourself unraveling, your body tightening as the coil inside you threatens to snap. And Heeseung knows. He feels it.

His fingers tighten against your skin, his movements growing desperate, erratic, as his own release begins creeping up on him. His forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven, his voice nothing but a strained rasp.

“Cum for me again, baby,” he pleads, his words like fire against your skin. “Let it go.”

The command, the way his voice drips with authority and adoration, is what finally undoes you. A sharp, broken moan rips from your throat as your body tenses, pleasure surging through you like wildfire. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him, and Heeseung loses it.

A deep, guttural groan escapes his lips as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep, his entire body shuddering as he lets go, his release spilling into you. The pleasure crashes over both of you at once, your moans mixing together, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.

And then, stillness.

Your body, still trembling, collapses against his chest, your forehead pressing into the slick heat of his skin. Your breaths are ragged, uneven, matching his as he tries to catch his pace, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment, the silence filled only with the sounds of your slowing breaths, your racing heartbeats.

Heeseung moves his hands, still firm but now gentle, slide down to your lower back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles against your damp skin. His touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he can’t believe this moment is real.

His lips brush against your hair, barely a whisper of a kiss, before he exhales shakily. And then, he murmurs—soft, breathless, like a vow.

“I’m never letting you go.”

Your chest tightens at the raw emotion in his voice. His arms wrap tighter around you, holding you impossibly close, his hands never stopping their slow caresses against your back. His lips press against the top of your head, again and again, each kiss softer than the last.

“Never,” he whispers. “Never, never, never…”

His words sink into your skin, into your bones, into you. And as you melt further into his embrace, letting the warmth of him envelop you completely, you realize: You never want him to let go.

You slowly lift your head, your breath still uneven, your body still thrumming with the remnants of pleasure.

You meet his eyes, his Bambi-like, doe eyes, wide and full of something so deep, so undeniable, it makes your chest tighten. They glimmer under the dim light of your bedroom, reflecting every unspoken word, every silent confession hanging thick in the space between you.

You let out a breathy, almost disbelieving smile, your gaze sweeping over his face, his flushed cheeks, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Heeseung mirrors your smile, soft and hazy, his expression filled with something tender, something so Heeseung that it makes warmth flood your entire body. His hands find your face, large and warm, his knuckles grazing your cheeks in slow, delicate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

You lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, and the way he exhales, soft, shaky, like he’s feeling everything too, sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “I…”

And suddenly, you stop yourself.

Because the weight of what you were about to say hits you all at once.

Your lips part slightly, your throat tightening. The words are right there, sitting heavy on your tongue, aching to spill out. But there’s fear too, fear of what this means, fear of how much this changes everything.

Heeseung notices. His fingers pause against your cheek, his brows twitching just slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes like he’s searching, trying to read you.

But then, he smiles. Soft, knowing, patient. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch featherlight, his voice a quiet murmur in the space between you.

“I know,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Because you believe him.

Heeseung has always known you better than anyone, always understood you in ways that no one else could. And right now, in this moment, with the way he’s holding you, looking at you, you realize you don’t have to say it.

Because he already knows.

Heeseung leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting, giving you the choice. And when you press your lips to his in the softest, most deliberate kiss, you’re telling him everything you couldn’t say in words.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against his warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

And when you finally pull away, when you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in, you realize: You were never afraid of loving Heeseung.

You were afraid of admitting that you always have.

But now, with his arms around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his heartbeat syncing with yours, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because he’s never letting you go.

And neither are you.

That’s why he stays at your house the next day. And the day after that. And for the few days that follow, until time becomes a blur and neither of you think to question it.

Because how could he leave, how could either of you go back to a world where you weren’t tangled up in each other like this?

The first morning, you wake up wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, your head tucked against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soft, lazy circles against your back. Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you want to.

His lips press into your hair, a silent good morning, and you melt into him because it feels natural, because this is Heeseung, your best friend, the boy who has always been a constant, and yet, now, everything is different.

And it’s better. He doesn’t leave. You don’t ask him to.

Instead, you spend the morning like you have a thousand times before: lounging on the couch, talking about nothing, watching movies you’ve seen a hundred times. Except now, there’s a new rhythm, an unspoken understanding.

His fingers brush yours absentmindedly. His arm finds its way around your waist without hesitation. His lips press against your temple between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe, it is.

The second night, he kisses you in the kitchen while you’re making dinner, stealing a taste of the sauce on your lips, grinning when you roll your eyes. The third night, you fall asleep with your fingers intertwined, his breath warm against your neck, his hand resting over your heart like he’s afraid you might slip away in the night. By the fourth day, he’s using your shampoo, leaving his clothes in your drawers, stealing your socks because he swears they’re more comfortable than his own.

By the fifth, you don’t even realize he never went home. Because this is home now. Not the walls. Not the bed. But this. Him. You. Together.

One night, a week after everything changed, you find yourselves in your living room, curled up against each other, laughter spilling into the quiet air.

It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn’t a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.

It was in the late-night phone calls when you both should’ve been asleep. It was in the way he always kept your favorite snacks in his kitchen without thinking. It was in the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of something more. It was in every single thing before this.

And now that the truth is out in the open, now that you know, you don’t ever want to live in a world where you don’t wake up next to Heeseung. And it doesn’t feel real.

Not because you don’t want it to be—but because it still catches you off guard. The quiet way Heeseung reaches for your hand without thinking. The way his presence in your space isn’t something fleeting, but something constant. Something permanent.

It’s been two weeks since everything changed, and somehow, the world didn’t shift to match it. The sun still rises the same way. Your friends still send memes in the group chat. Life moves on, but now, there’s this.

This is Heeseung pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when he wakes up before you. This is him playing with your fingers absentmindedly when you’re watching something together. This is the way he still teases you the same, still makes fun of you the same, but now he kisses you after like he can’t help it.

Yunjin is the only one who knows.

She had her suspicions, she always had her suspicions, but it became painfully obvious the moment you showed up at her place wearing a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one she distinctly remembered seeing Heeseung wear last week.

Which is why, at her birthday party, there’s this lingering tension in the air. It’s subtle, the way you and Heeseung hesitate just slightly when you’re around the others, the way you don’t know if you’re supposed to act like you always have or like something’s changed.

Because something has changed. But the world doesn’t know yet.

You and Heeseung sit at the dining table, pretending everything is normal, pretending that you’re not constantly aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, the way his knee brushes yours every time he shifts.

And then, under the table, he takes your hand. It’s subtle, careful, the warmth of his palm slipping against yours, his fingers threading through yours in a way that makes your stomach flip. Heeseung doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge it, just holds your hand beneath the table, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Finally,” Sunghoon mutters, watching Heeseung with a knowing smirk.

Heeseung freezes. You both turn to see Sunghoon leaning against the chair next to him, arms crossed, eyes flickering down to where your hands are intertwined beneath the table.

“I was wondering when you were gonna stop being a coward,” Sunghoon teases, nudging Heeseung’s foot under the table. “Took you long enough, man.”

Heeseung groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Jesus, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon just grins, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Nah, I’m happy for you guys. But also, I knew you two had something going on.” He points a lazy finger at you. “Your whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing was so fake.”

The table erupts in laughter, and you sigh, shaking your head. But then, Heeseung squeezes your hand, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Quiet. Certain. And you realize, this feels right. Being here. Being together. Being this.

The night winds down. People leave. And you end up in Heeseung’s car, the windows slightly fogged from the cold air outside. The soft strum of Waiting Room fills the quiet, the melancholic chords settling deep into your chest.

You watch Heeseung, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, his face relaxed, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.

“Wanna go to McDonald’s?”

You blink. “What?”

Heeseung smirks, eyes flickering to you before turning back to the road. “You heard me.”

A beat of silence. You laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

You order fries and ice cream and talk about the dumbest things. about how Niki's new girlfriend is the worst, about how Jay got too drunk, about how Jake still doesn’t know how to properly pour a drink.

But somewhere between the laughter, somewhere between the way Heeseung licks salt off his fingers and tosses fries into your mouth, somewhere between the way you lean against his shoulder in the drive-thru line.

Heeseung sighs. And then—

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You still. Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, your breath catching at the quiet, vulnerable way he says it. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, soft, so soft, his gaze deep, searching.

Your chest tightens. “Heeseung…”

He smiles, a little shy, a little unsure. Then, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I just—” He swallows, then exhales. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Your breath catches. And in that moment, in the soft hum of the radio, in the glow of the streetlights, in the taste of salt and ice cream and the warmth of Heeseung’s fingers against yours, you know.

“I thought maybe it would go away,” he continues, his lips quirking slightly, like he’s laughing at himself. “Like—it’s just Y/N, right? My best friend.”

You hold your breath, watching him, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, making his eyes look even softer, warmer.

“But then,” Heeseung shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d do something stupid, like wear my hoodie and refuse to give it back, or make me watch Shrek 2 for the tenth time, or grab my hand in a crowded room like it was nothing.” He swallows, his voice dropping to something even softer. “And I’d realize—I was never going to stop feeling this way.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? The quiet kind of love. The kind that slips into the cracks of everyday moments, unnoticed until one day, it’s too big to ignore.

You feel the words sitting heavy in your throat, pressing against your ribs, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper.

“Heeseung.” He looks at you, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, then squeeze his hand. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, too.”

The tension in his shoulders dissolves instantly. His lips part, his eyes searching yours like he wants to make sure he really heard you right.

And then, he smiles. Not the teasing kind, not the smirk he throws at you when he’s making fun of you, but something real. Something deep. The kind of smile that says, I know. I knew before you even said it.

You shift closer, your forehead brushing against his, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours. “I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it,” you murmur. “But I do now.”

Heeseung hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure?”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand, his nose nudging against yours. “Because I would’ve had to spend another three years waiting for you to catch up, and I don’t think I could survive that.”

You groan, shoving his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

And just like that, it’s easy again. The way you tease each other, the way you fit against him, the way you fall back into the rhythm of your friendship except now there’s no pretending.

Now it’s all out in the open. And it’s better.

As Heeseung drives you home, the song still playing softly in the background, your mind drifts back. To three years ago. To that stupid Halloween party where you met, you in your skeleton costume, him in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle onesie.

To the late nights spent working on that Shrek project, arguing about PowerPoint transitions like it was life or death, only to laugh until your sides hurt. To the wedding where he spun you around on the dance floor, looking at you like he already knew, like he was just waiting for you to catch up. To every car ride, every inside joke, every time you almost realized what he meant to you.

Your fingers tighten around his, and Heeseung glances at you, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“What?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. “Nothing.”

Because you understand now. Because Waiting Room plays softly in the background, and the lyrics echo in your chest—know it’s for the better.

You do. You know now that keeping Heeseung in your life like this, is the best thing you’ll ever do.

And when Heeseung looks at you, his grip on your hand tightening like he knows too, you realize.

For you, it was worth waiting.

my masterlist 🧦 ☆★ // previous fic

author's note: hey guys! this is my first long fic about heeseung, the first one i've ever written, and i hope you liked it! i know 21k+ words is a lot, but i had so much fun writing it. thank you for reading! <3

[tonycries]

One More? Please? - G.S.

Synopsis. A kiss always solves everything! But when a kiss turns into something more…well, it’s only a desperate attempt to unseal yourselves from this damned prison realm, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, coworkers to lovers, being stuck in that damn box, oral (female), mutual másturbation, spitting, fáce-sítting, máting press, Satoru is down bad for you, chóking, overstim, multiple rounds, créampie, pet names (sweetheart), swearing.

Word count. 4.4k

A/N. Happy belated two months to this blog! Concept inspired by this post by @kingkonoha.

“Maybe we should kiss and see if the box opens?”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing to ever come out of your mouth.”

“Hey- it works in the movies! True love’s kiss and all-”

You heave out a heavy sigh that makes even the skeleton at your shoulder shake its head in pity. Goddamn, if these curses weren’t going to kill him then you will. 

“I take it back. That’s the dumbest fucking thing to ever come out of your mouth.”

Satoru hooks a thumb over his blindfold to gaze at you with mock seriousness. Oh, how the mighty have fallen - and how you were teetering dangerously close to a stroke with each dramatic bat of his long lashes.

“C’monnn~” he whines, with the flair of someone that was not sealed in an inescapable prison, “Don’t tell me that in all these years you’ve never once been at least a little tempted to kiss me, sweetheart.” 

“I’d rather kiss that dusty skull.” Shooting him a pointed look that makes even the skulls at your feet recoil. It would almost be hilarious if it wasn’t for the fact that you were trapped. In the prison realm. With Gojo Satoru of all people. Possibly forever.

Shit, is this karma for all those times you ditched Satoru with Nanami instead of dealing with him yourself?

Now, Satoru might be going about it with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but just a few minutes ago when his life flashed before his very eyes at the mere sight of Suguru - or at least, the monster wearing his body - he’d expected some of his favorite memories to be the ones with you in it. 

You - his lil’ coworker - in all your gorgeous, smart-mouthed glory. And maybe if he was lucky, he even expected a couple glimpses of you in his future. Preferably with a giant rock on your finger.

But that’s a story for another time, what he certainly did not expect was for your stupidly heroic (and quite beautiful) ass to jump right in the middle of the prison realm’s ensnarement. 

Although, honestly, right now he doesn’t think he’d want to be locked up in here with anyone but you - and that withering glare you send him. 

Undeterred, Satoru has the audacity to throw his head back and laugh. Laugh. A sound you’ve come to realize over the years, as innocent as it sounds, does not bode well for you or your sanity. 

A sanity that’s been slowly dwindling since your first day of meeting Satoru. Back then, a brash, cocky new teacher that waltzed into the halls of Jujutsu Tech in those pretentious sunglasses like he owned the place. 

Well, not that he was any different right now. Lounging over some disgruntled skeletons, you half-expected him to pull out a deck chair and start sunbathing amidst the bones. Your begrudging coworker - and occasional bane of your existence - seemed right at home. 

You, however, were decidedly not having the time of your life. 

“I swear, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you grumble, wincing at the bones prodding you from almost every angle. 

“Can you blame me?” he hums, now fully tugging down his blindfold to hang around his neck, “It’s not every day I get to spend quality time with my favorite person in the world.”

You scoff, strangely self-conscious as those striking blue sweep your figure from head to toe. “Lucky me. Well why don’t you spend this quality time helping me figure out how the hell we can get out of here.”

“I already told y-”

“Anything but that.”

With a sulky huff, Satoru peers down at you, “Then we just wait till someone gets us out of here. I’m sure Megumi-chan is just tearing his emo hair out trying to unseal this thing.”

“...”

“You’re absolutely correct, Yuji then. Or…” he tilts his head towards a sad pile of bones, “We end up like our little friend over there. Though I’d make a far better looking skeleton-”

You don’t hear the rest of Satoru’s rant over the small noise of concern that falls from your lips. Something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach at the fact that yes you really were stuck in the prison realm with Gojo Satoru. Possibly forever. And no this wasn’t some strange dream like when you and Shoko accidentally raided the wrong brownie box in the kitchen.

Shit. 

And perhaps it showed on your face, because you’re jolted out of your reverie by warm fingers intertwining with yours. Grounding. Satoru’s eyes now searching yours with an intensity that made you squirm uncomfortably. 

“Hey, we’ll figure this out, okay?” he mutters softly. “Remember that time we accidentally set the training ground on fire?” leaning in closer now, “Or that mission we got chased by that cursed vending machine?”

You roll your eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. “Yeah, and then you nearly got us killed trying to order a sweet tea. ”

Satoru chuckles, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “See? It worked out, didn’t it? It always does, sweetheart.” 

And if your heart does a strange little lurch, well, then you just blame it on the femur jabbing into your side. 

All is quiet in your little hell. That is, until.

“Hey, Satoru…does kissing really work in the movies?” 

You barely catch the way Satoru’s breath hitches ever-so-slightly as he leans in closer. eyes sparkling with mischief. And oh you knew that look - one that was usually accompanied by a lecture by Yaga, one that sent shivers down your spine. He grins, “Well, there’s only one way to find out, hm?”

Embarrassment and amusement bubbles inside you, tumbling out in the form of a barely-audible, “A peck. One.”

“Awww. Eight?”’

“No.”

“Five?”

“Satoru.”

Minty breath fanning your face, “Okay okay, one peck and a kiss to your forehead. C’mon, it’s a bargain~”

Pinching your nose, you sigh out a weary, “This is so stupid. Fine, but if it doesn’t work then I’m strangling you.”

And it’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.  

Soft. Satoru’s lips were so soft. And he tasted so unfairly of caramel apples and sweet, sweet mischief. Just like him. Feather-light and fleeting - yet the kiss burns into your brain with an intensity that you strangely didn’t mind.

It’s over before you know it. The cold air hits your lips as Satoru’s words ring in your ears, a disappointed little, “Aw, that didn’t work.”

Barely even risking a glance at the still very sealed realm, your body reacts before your mind - the expensive cotton of his uniform collar soft against your fingers as you pull Satoru towards you with a sense of urgency you can’t quite explain.

And then you’re kissing him. And he’s kissing you because shit this is all that Satoru’s been dreaming about since he turned 23 and suddenly realized that oh you were frighteningly everything that he ever wanted. 

“S-Satoru,” you whisper, breathless against his lips. 

“Shhhh, my girl. One more. Didn’t work.” 

His lips are searing on yours. Urgent and greedy, because fuck if it took getting trapped in the prison realm to finally kiss you then God knows when he’ll be able to again. 

Which is why he breathes you in like he doesn’t have enough time, and probably never will - even in this godforsaken box where time never passes. 

“Shit. O-one more.”

Drinking in your sweet gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours, tasting how sinfully delicious you were. Satoru’s hands wander the expanse of your body, cupping your head to kiss you deeper, snaking down to squeeze your ass - and everything in between. 

Pulling away ever-so-slightly with a playful bite to your bottom lip, he leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. The disappointed whine that leaves your pretty mouth makes all the blood in Satoru’s body rush to his cock. 

“Sweetheart.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your racing pulse. “Y’think I kissed the wrong lips?”

Oh? 

Satoru’s words send a jolt of electricity running down your spine - all the way down to your heated cunt. “W-what?” you managed to choke out, cheeks flaring as he raises his eyes to meet yours and-

Oh.

Oh, shit. If the curses weren’t going to kill you then Satoru sure might. 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Satoru carefully jostling the two of you so that he’s lying on his back, your body manhandled to straddle his pretty face. 

“Satoru, when you mean ‘wrong lips’...here?” you trail off, still reeling from him and the abrupt change in position and him. 

“Exactly what I mean,” he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating beneath your dripping cunt. “Now, spread ‘em wider f’me. Let me taste you- Need it s’bad.”

Body moving as if on autopilot, your knees part wider to let him greedily take in the sight of your soaked panties. Beads of slick seeping through the thin fabric each time his hot breath meets your cunt. 

But not for long - the cool air hits you before you realize what’s happening. Because Satoru is ripping your flimsy panties off with one hand. Throwing it behind to God-knows-where with the urgency of a madman. 

“Shit, so wet f’me already.” he groans, mouth watering at the obscene sight of you clenching around nothing. “S’gorgeous. You really are perfect everywhere, huh?” he mutters through lazy, languid kisses along your thighs. Tongue darting out just so to leisurely trace circles along the heated skin. 

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, the stretch nothing with the two long fingers spreading your swollen folds apart. Your face burns from just how adoring Satoru looks below you.

You buck into his touch, “Hngh- Please. Wan’ your mouth on me.”

And perhaps the great Gojo Satoru decided to be merciful for once in his life, because without another word, he’s surging forward. Tongue flicking out to tease your sloppy entrance, pooling your juices before tipping his head back, back, back to let it slide down his throat so sinfully.

Shit, Satoru could just cum in his pants right now, of course you taste heavenly. Better than he could’ve ever imagined on any lonely night. 

You shudder as he flattens his tongue across your folds, sliding teasingly between them, grazing your swollen clit just barely at an unhurried rhythm that almost has Satoru forgetting where he was. But quite frankly, he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it either.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he hums around your clit, the vibrations making you squeal. Sucking gently, tongue rolling harshly against your bundle of nerves, over and over- “Cause it’s what I’ve been wanting for years.”

The words ring in your ears almost as much as the lewd squelches below. Years?

“F-fuck- feels hngh- What do you mean y-years, Satoru?” 

Oh, Satoru thinks he could pass out just at the way you whine out his name so prettily. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, a hand hastily snaking down to unbuckle his pants. “Mhmm~ Couldn’t go a day without sparring with you where I didn’t think of bending you over and tasting you right there y’know.”

Your eyes snap down to meet Satoru’s hazy, half-lidded ones. Something dark and feral shining within them. And right now, thighs wrapped around his head, you don’t think he’s ever looked happier. White locks splayed out, a fucked-out expression on his face as his tongue bullies past your folds, you could feel the slight smile curling his lips against you. 

It’s overwhelming - both his confession and the way Satoru was making out with your cunt like a man starved.

Nose-deep in your pussy, tongue alternating between its abuse on your throbbing clit and dipping in and out of your sloppy hole at a maddening pace. Mouth only speeding up ruthlessly at the way you convulse and grind involuntarily on top of him.

God, Satoru was going insane at the way your walls were sucking him up so good, clamping down with each push of his tongue. 

“Shit- made jus’ f’me. You like that, don’t you?” he growls against your cunt, voice hoarse with desire. “Like fucking my face with your pussy?”

“Oh! Ngh, yes Satoru- L-love it-”

A bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to rock against his face. Harder. Tongue more desperate. He couldn’t get enough. Meeting your every grind, tongue lapping at your cunt so obscenely. 

Breaths ragged and hot against your cunt, drinking you in with the desperation of a man that wouldn’t mind giving up air for your essence. And it was Satoru - of course he wouldn’t mind.

Especially with the large hand snaking up your thigh, going from drawing reassuring patterns at your hips to rubbing tight, little circles on your pulsing clit. Hasty, and urgent - like he had no time to waste. “Tha’s right, my girl. Give it up for me,”

Every cell in your body is on fire, every nerve ending singing with pleasure at the way Satoru plays your body like an instrument. 

“M’close, Satoru- Hah- s’close.” you moan breathlessly, a hand tangling in his soft strands. Using it as leverage to ride Satoru’s pretty face just the way you like it.

But you didn’t have to - because Satoru seems to already know exactly what to do. Exactly how to quirk his tongue just right to brush against all your most sensitive spots. Exactly how to match the rhythm of his abuse on your clit to the way he was tonguefucking you into delirium. Exactly how to look at you with such a hungry expression that devours you almost as much as his mouth. 

“Cum f’me, sweetheart.”

Satoru didn’t even have to ask. Because you’re cumming with a strangled gasp of his name. White-hot pleasure coursing through you like lightning, body trembling as you cum all over Satoru’s pretty face. 

Hands moving your limp, boneless hips across his face, forcing you to ride out peak after peak on his red lips.

As the blood roaring in your ears bates, and you blink back your vision, the first thing you see are those familiar blue eyes gazing up at you. Holding you steady, lips brushing gentle kisses along your inner thighs. 

Oh, how beautiful he was like this.

“S-S’toru?” you mewl, still sensitive from your orgasm as Satoru shifts underneath you to sit you prettily in his lap.

“Mhm?” he nuzzles your neck.

“One more. It didn’t work.”

Oh, if you knew the only way to shut up Gojo Satoru was to say something like this then you would’ve done it a lot sooner. 

But Satoru’s stunned silence doesn’t last for long, because he grins, low and sultry, “You’re right. It didn’t work.”

The metallic clinking of a belt echoes in the stuffy chamber as Satoru hastily pushes down his pants. Cock springing free to hit his lower abs, “What a shame.”

You blink at the sheer size of him - he was going to split you in two. It was unfair, really. Water is wet. Gojo Satoru has a big dick. 

But oh was he pretty - so pretty.  Prominent veins glistening in the dim lighting, fat tip flushed your favorite shade of delicate pink, leaking furiously in between your thighs.

Gulping, you reach out to wrap your hand around his achingly hard cock. So warm and heavy in your hands. “Y-yeah, what a shame.”

Both of you watch - entranced - at the way he twitches in your grasp at the mere sound of your voice. A maddening little bump! bump! bump! against your palm as you begin pumping him slowly - so agonizingly slow. 

“Oh- Feel s’good, sweetheart.” Satoru hisses lowly as you swipe at the precum beading at this head. Thumbing teasingly under his sensitive slit, tracing delicately along his veins. 

And by God does it do something to you to see the great Gojo Satoru falling apart for you, hair tousled, lips kiss-bitten, and eyes looking at you like he wanted to positively eat you alive. It made your cunt throb so desperately, slick forming a dark wet patch on his trousers. 

Not one to be left behind, his long fingers deftly snake down to your dripping cunt. Not wasting any time before bullying his fingertips past your swollen folds, curling expertly to press down against that one spot that has your fist faltering on his cock. Hard. 

Pretty little moans left your lips at the way Satoru so easily matches your pace. Thrusting knuckle-deep into your pussy in and out - hitting that spot over and over.

“Shit, Toru- s’deep inside me. I’m- hngh-”

Satoru was in heaven, really. You were so warm and wet around both his fingers and his throbbing cock. 

Only two thoughts running through his mind right now - 1. He was right, your hands were softer and more sinfully delicious around his swollen cock. And 2. The hardest battle he’s ever fought was probably right now - at your mercy, trying not to spill all over your hands because he’d be damned if he finally scored the girl and came in two seconds.

Shit, he thinks fingers almost erratic now, he needs you to cum. Right now. 

As if sensing his urgency, your moves become more frantic, Satoru’s brows furrowing at the way you increase your pace. His hips twitch, as if trying to thrust into your fist. matching your pace as you start stroking him harder, faster. 

Ah, but alas, the great Gojo Satoru’s reputation precedes him. 

“Oh, fuck- M’gonna-” And soon enough, you’re seeing stars behind your eyes - or maybe those were tears - as you cum. Hard. 

Body moving before your mind, you’re clenching around Satoru’s fingers, grinding down so ferally as you edge him closer and closer. “C’mon, Toru. One more, right?” you whisper brokenly, lips ghosting his ear.

Breath coming in short, strained gasps of what sounded like your name now, “Oh- fuck ngh- so close.” he warns, voice hoarse. “If you keep doing that, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

You smirk, raising a brow, “Is that a threat, Satoru?”

Willing his fucked-out eyes open, they bore into yours as he utters, “No, ah- it’s a p-promise.”

Without warning, Satoru clasps your wrists, forcing you to stop pumping him. The disappointed mewl threatening to spill from your lips is cut off just as your back hits the ground.

Slam!

You think you could almost get whiplash from how swiftly Satoru had you caged and splayed out so shamefully beneath him. 

You whine, “But you didn’t even get to-”

“Fuck, not now. Gotta feel you or else m’gonna cum so embarrassingly all over your fist.” He rests his throbbing erection laid out so enticingly across your stomach, leaking hot precum onto your skin. And that makes you shut up, eyes mapping where it ended and realizing that yeah, you might’ve faced more mercy with the curses outside of this box. “Besides. One more, right?”

And before you can respond, Satoru’s spitting on you once. Twice. Thrice.

You flinch as the wads of saliva hit your dripping cunt, mixing with your slick so obscenely as Satoru smears it across your swollen folds. Your mouth drops into a soft oh! of disbelief as he promptly pops his thumb into his mouth, groaning at the taste. 

“Shit.” Satoru hisses lowly, “One more might just not be enough.”

Not wasting a moment longer, he’s bullying his throbbing cock into your snug cunt. Head thrown back as your plush walls desperately try to accommodate his size.

“Oh. Oh shit hah- should’ve been locked up here ngh- sooner.” he groans, words straight from his cock. “Feel s’heavenly around m-me.” Because God Satoru thinks he wouldn’t even mind staying here for the rest of his life if it meant he got to have you like this.

You moan at the positively delicious stretch of your pussy, plush walls unable to decide between pushing him out and milking the soul out of him. “Hah- Toru s’too big. I can’t-” 

“You will.” he grits out, teeth clenched and brows furrowed as he focuses on letting you adjust. Pressing inch by fucking inch. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he fights that feral part of himself that just wants to plunge into your pretty pussy till his tip kisses your cervix, and you’re drunk on nothing but his cock.

But he didn’t have to - because you’re immediately wrapping your legs around his toned waist, pulling Satoru to you recklessly until his heavy balls smack your ass. Tufts of snowy white hair - already so wet with your slick and his precum - finally meeting your cunt.

“Ah! Shit, s’full Toru.” you keen, body bowing into his.

There’s not even a hair's breadth between your bodies now as Satoru chuckles darkly. “You little minx. Thought you couldn’t handle me, but you really wanted to be split apart on my cock, huh?”

You feel almost shy under his gaze as you mumble out a quiet little, “Well you did say one more.”

Ah, Satoru thinks deliriously, if you aren’t Mrs. Gojo by the time you two get out of this then there’s seriously something wrong with him. 

But he doesn’t tell you that. Instead with a satisfied smirk, he claims your lips in a searing kiss, sucking your tongue so lewdly as he did with your cunt. Parting for only a second before pressing his lips to yours again. And again. And again, as if it hurt to part.

“Mhm. Always wanted to do this, sweetheart.” he hums against your pretty lips. “Fuck ever since you hah- walked in on that first day.” 

Kissing you sweetly with a tenderness that doesn’t translate to his hips as pulls back, back, back. All the way till his angry, hard tip was just grazing your sloppy entrance. “One more.”

Body moving before his mind, his hips start fucking into your dripping cunt recklessly. Satoru doesn’t fuck you with the finesse he imagined he would all these years, rough, harsh thrusts fueled by pure need and all the desperation from these last few years.

In one, fluid movement, the burn of the stretch hits you before the realization that Satoru has thrown your legs over his sculpted shoulders. 

“Ah- So good, Toru. Oh my god- hah-” you mewl at the change in angle. His pulsing dick expertly hitting that one spot inside you which has your words slurring together, body arching off the floor to press so impossibly close against him. 

And, well, Satoru isn’t any better - because he’s slamming his cock into you mindlessly. Hitting that spot over and over. 

With one hand, he caresses your stomach. Whispering out a ragged, “Feel me inside? Feel me right…” Pressing his palm down hard, “Here.”

The other forces you to look up at him, drinking in your whines of “Yes yes yes, can feel you s-so deep hngh- inside me, Toru.” 

You’re so cockdrunk and full of Satoru that you barely notice the hands groping their way down your body. Catching harshly on your swollen clit, starting to draw, quick, frenzied circles that match the cadence of his hips smacking into yours. 

“Look at me.” he murmurs raspily, “Open your mouth.”

And you can do nothing but take it, tongue lolling out so lewdly for the warm stream of spit that hits it. Once. Twice. 

You look up at him with teary eyes, as you take it all -  anything and everything he was giving. And it makes Satoru bow his head with a fucked-out groan, cock twitching so animalistically as it keeps plunging inside you roughly. Deft fingers on your clit becoming more desperate.

Harder. Faster. Balls squeezing so painfully. Like a lamb to slaughter, he was going to eat you up - and you were going to let thim.

You squeal at the overstimulation, hips bucking up for more more more-

“God, sweetheart, you don’t know what you do to me.” he moans, voice strained with desire and the euphoria of getting everything he’s wanted for so long. It was driving him insane. “Now c’mon. One more. Give me one more like my good girl.”

“Hngh- yes- Toru!”

You don’t even know what “one more” means anymore - all you do know is that you’re cumming and cumming all around Satoru’s unforgiving cock. Walls fluttering so snugly, your body convulses as you cream around his cock. Nails dragging down the expanse of his sculpted back, Satoru’s name leaving your bruised lips and into the heady air like a prayer every time his tip kisses your cervix. His new favorite melody.

And that seems to be what makes him snap as well - because with a final, sloppy thrust, he’s painting your walls such a sinful white. Pumping thick, hot ropes of his cum into your quivering cunt. 

“Shit- yeah, my girl. Take it. Take it all f’me.” Satoru shudders above you, head thrown back, chest heaving as he fucks you through your high. Movements nothing more than shallow, mindless little thrusts to get you both off so animalistically. 

It was so fucking filthy - and exactly what you needed so badly. He was exactly what you needed so badly. 

Now, Satoru only had to take one look as you use him so obscenely for your pleasure - eyes dazed, drool trickling down the corner of your mouth - before he thinks he might just cum again. And again. And again until he physically couldn’t anymore.

But first…

Pulling out of your heavenly pussy with a lewd pop! His long fingers delicately collects the mixture of slick and cum now gushing out of you obscenely. 

Aw, what a waste, Satoru muses as it pools below you sinfully. If it was up to him he wouldn’t waste a single drop from your pretty cunt. 

But no matter. 

Abruptly, Satoru bullies two fingers into your mouth - forcing you to taste yourself, to taste him. Pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way that has you choking and gagging around him, teary eyes just begging up at him. Perfect - you were so perfect for him. 

Kissing your forehead with a tenderness that doesn’t match his actions, he hums, faux innocence lacing his words, “What a shame, the box didn’t open yet.”

And oh does he love the excitement lighting up your exhausted eyes. Pretty thighs twitching underneath him as a slow, fucked-out little smile curls your lips. 

“One more? Please?”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

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

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

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

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

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

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

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

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

“excuse me.”

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

“i need you to model for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you must be so down bad.

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

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

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

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

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

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

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

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

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

and maybe he is.

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

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

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

not want. need.

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

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

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

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

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

��satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: your boyfriend comes to pick you after a long day at uni. sensing your jealousy about the attention he’s getting from your classmates, he makes it up to you in his own way.

tags. olderbf!gojo x female reader. fluff, tiny bit of angst, suggestive [make out sesh]. age gap — reader above 20, gojo early 30’s. jealousy. reader gets called ‘princess, baby, beautiful.’ not proof read !

satoru’s arrival, as per usual, serves as pure entertainment for many students. it’s not often that they get to see such a tall and handsome man around campus after all.

you patiently stand there, waiting for that said man to come and get you. the increase in giggles and whispers around you can only mean one thing: he’s nearby.

your boyfriend’s car comes to a stop in the distance. satoru steps out of the driver’s seat a second later, one of his hands running through his fluffy, snowy hair.

‘. . damn, he’s fucking hot,’ ‘yep. heard he’s in a relationship though. sucks,’ ‘girl— do i look like i care? need him so baaaaddd.’

it’s infuriating to hear those words while you - his girlfriend - are standing close to them. you decide not to give those girls any attention nor do you try to speak up. it’s not worth the effort.

satoru closes the car door behind him, his hands in the pockets of his slacks while he strolls up to where you’re standing. it’s as if he’s walking down a runway - graceful, confident, every step executed with perfect balance.

he can hear the murmurs from the students around, but he simply does not care. his steady gaze has been fixed on you the moment he spotted your figure from across campus.

“cute,” satoru mutters under his breath with a small smile, blue eyes taking in the sight of you standing there against a wall. the way you’re fiddling with the strap of your bag while pretending not to have noticed him is quite endearing.

you look down at the ground until a pair of black oxfords come into view, stopping right in front of yours. you slowly tilt your head back until you’re face to face with the man himself.

“hey, beautiful,” satoru greets, his voice smooth and slightly deep, a faint smirk playing on his lips. his knuckles brush against your cheek whilst he admires your every feature, acting as if he hasn’t seen you in days.

you nod in response, whispering a small ‘hi’ before your eyes dart around campus again. your bottom lip pushes forward just a tiny bit to form a small pout.

. . and there it is; satoru knows that look in your eyes like the back of his hand. he’s seen that same pout before, along with the hint of jealousy lurking behind your gaze that you try so hard to hide.

he understands why you’re feeling that way.

the other girls on campus, the way they ogle him and whisper, it would make any woman insecure. but to him, there was no need for that. satoru is yours, and he’s made that known to every single soul around you a million times before.

perhaps they need to be reminded once more.

satoru wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, his touch gentle and possessive. he can see how you’re trying to act normal, though he knows you way better than that.

the pad of his thumb rubs small circles into your hip as your lover leans in and speaks in a low yet intimate voice that only you get to hear, “oh? look at you, acting all tough with your little pout.”

“tell me. what’s up, princess?” satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ticklish skin. he lowers his head to your face and plants a small kiss on your nose, gaining a mix of delighted yet irritated whispers of the people around you.

“usually you jump right into my arms after seeing me— y’know, like a lil’ bunny,” the white-haired man starts sulking as well, pressing your body flush against his. “where’s my cute ‘n clingy babyyyy?”

satoru’s over-exaggerated whine makes your nose scrunch up, though you can’t deny the truth. he knows you better than you know yourself. he can see right through your attempt to disguise your jealousy, yet you’re still too stubborn to admit anything.

“whatever. come on,” you roll your eyes before grabbing his arm and tugging him forward. you want nothing more than to escape your surroundings. you’re getting tired of the continuous and unwanted attention satoru is getting.

it’s irksome. you know satoru doesn’t give them the attention they so desire - he never will - yet you still feel this pang in your chest whenever you see those girls shamelessly ogling your boyfriend.

satoru, being naturally observant, notices your sudden eagerness to leave campus. he can tell that your jealousy is growing worse because of the other students that keep on eyeing him. while he is used to the attention, he hates seeing it affect you.

the whispers and giggles from the other women are like white noise, insignificant background fodder that barely warranted his notice. you’re all he sees and listens to— no matter what.

your presence, your voice, your body, your soul. . . you’re the only one he cares about. he just wishes you’d realise that.

satoru wordlessly allows himself to be dragged off. his gaze is fixated on the back of your head, a mixture of amusement and worry glinting in those blue eyes of his. he can’t help but feel guilty. even if he didn’t really do anything wrong.

he wants to make it up to you, somehow.

once you reach the car, satoru gently shoos your hand away from the door handle the moment he catches you try to get in yourself. he reaches around you and pulls it open with a soft ‘click’.

satoru then surprises you by kissing your forehead— his free hand coming up to cup the back of your head. his fingers bury themselves in your hair. a subtle smirk tugs at his glossy lips as he senses the envious glares from the other, irrelevant onlookers.

that’s exactly what he’s trying to accomplish. to make it known to the world that he’s your man. he’ll gladly do it over and over again, until all of them finally take the hint.

“ladies first,” satoru gestures, his voice gentle and loving. he pulls back and smiles at you with his dimples showing. you’re slightly taken aback by the smooth gesture before thanking him in a small murmur.

“thank you.”

it’s silent for a good couple seconds after satoru gets into the driver’s seat. he settles his keys into the ignition switch, though doesn’t turn them. instead, he faces you with a small sigh.

your lover already recognises what’s up. you probably won’t talk to him until the jealousy subsides. but that isn’t how he wants to fix this situation— he wants you to communicate with him.

“hey,” satoru tries to get you to look at him. your body is slightly turned away, your eyes looking out of the car window. it’s painfully obvious that you’re upset with him, even when it isn’t specifically his fault.

“don’t hide from me, c’mon,” he chuckles and tries to make you feel better by bringing your hand up to his lips. satoru leaves small kisses on your palm, eyes peering over the rims of his sunglasses to gauge your reaction.

you still don’t turn to face him. you’re too caught up in your own feelings— too stubborn to talk about the jealousy and insecurities that are bugging you. you know it’s unfair to your partner, but you currently can’t fix your own emotions.

sensing your insistent reluctance to face him, satoru places his hand gently under your chin. his fingers curl around your jaw and gently guide your gaze to meet his. the sight of your downcast expression - plagued with insecurity - tugs on his heartstrings.

“oh, my sweet little baby,” the white-haired man sighs once more.

without another word, the gap between you quickly closes as satoru leans in, his lips meeting yours in a firm but soft kiss. a soft gasp escapes your lips at the suddenness of his kiss, but the tension in your shoulders slowly starts to dissappear as you melt into his embrace.

the touch of his calloused fingers on your jaw is a wordless command you cannot resist. the kiss is a silent form of reassurance, a way for him to remind you of his feelings for you.

his want and need for you.

satoru can nearly taste the jealousy etched into your initial resistance, which he seeks to silence with his touch. thus, he deepens the kiss with renewed vigor. his free hand cups the back of your head and gently tilts it upwards to gain a better angle.

“mh. sweet,” satoru’s tongue swipes over your bottom lip. he eagerly swallows the faint taste of candy that you had eaten earlier. his tongue delves into your mouth the moment your lips make way, memorising every part of it.

he doesn’t let go of you until you’re both breathless. the sorcerer pulls back, though keeps the distance between your lips at a minimum. his cheeks are painted a soft pink, eyes half lidded and lips even glossier with your saliva now coating them.

“haah— fuck,” satoru catches his breath while his free hand rubs up and down your waist. he resists the urge to pull you into his lap and ravage you right then and there. he’ll leave that for when you’re home.

his gaze is on your parted lips once more. he simply cannot hold himself back from leaning in. his body moves closer to yours, caging you in between him and the passenger seat.

“i’m all yours,” satoru murmurs against your soft lips. he cups your face as he places a quick peck on your mouth. “only yours,” another chaste kiss causes your smile to find its way back onto your face. “don’t you forget,” and a third kiss finally makes you giggle.

your lover hums in satisfaction. he nuzzles his nose against yours, grinning widely as he successfully managed to coax the jealousy away— to gain his beautiful, happy girlfriend back. “there she is,” satoru coos and squeezes your cheeks together.

you huff at the feeling of your lips forced into a deformed ‘o’ shape, yet the bright smile tugging at your lips doesn’t disappear. “sorry for acting so childish,” you apologise for your own behavior. if it wasn’t for satoru taking the initiative to make it up to you, you would have given him the silent treatment.

the white-haired man shakes his head. he ruffles your hair affectionately while his lips settle on your cheek. he tenderly nibbles on the plush flesh, “no need to apologise. ‘t was cute,” he replies in a muffled voice.

satoru pulls back and his thumb brushes over the subtle mark that his teeth left on your skin. “besides,” he pinches your cheek before cocking his head to the right. your eyes follow the direction he’s looking at— which is your car window.

“i think everyone finally realised that y’re the one ‘n only girl for me.”

your heart drops as you only then remember that satoru’s car windows aren’t tinted. that means that everyone on campus probably has seen the little make out session you had with your boyfriend just now.

your eyes quickly dart around the crowded area. the way your fellow students are glancing at you - some with envy and others with embarrassment - tells you more than enough. . .

you clear your throat and try to hide your face with the sleeves of your top. you don’t know how you’re going back to university after today without facing the humiliating consequences of your (satoru’s) actions.

your shameless boyfriend sits there and grins from ear to ear, proud of his accomplishment and oblivious to your embarrassed state until you speak up again;

“. . satoru, please drive away as fast as you can.”

[dollwrites]

ᴅᴏᴏʀ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° ʀᴀғᴀʏᴇʟ

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｔｙｐｅ ┊ goonette isekai! ( 7k follower event )

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ ┊ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, pwp, creampie, cum play, titty sucking, all characters featured are aged 18+

ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔ ┊ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

Rafayel is a creampie addict.

whether it’s because he loves the way you look with his cum leaking out of your freshly fucked hole or because it’s his way of claiming your body, marking you as his mate, you didn’t know for sure. the only thing you could be certain of is, whenever he started to twitch and throb inside of you; whenever his balls drew up tight, and his ragged panting melted into a needy chanting of your name on a mindless loop, that he was going to cum inside you.

“Raf, ffffuck!” you crooned, breathless and undulating on the mattress beneath him. your back arched up from the surface to push your chest flush to his face, your right hand buried in his mauve tendrils so deep that you could feel the beads of sweat as they drench his scalp, and the heat of his fever transferring deep into your palm. you were gripping those sticky locks, holding on to them for some semblance of control as he rutted into you with wild abandon, his head dipped low to suck on your swell, whilst his hand fondled with other, his thumb mimicking the way his tongue flicked at your pebbled nipple, swiping over the taut flesh and nudging the little bud from every angle.

it was this lavishing of affection, paired with the rapid-fire, shallow pumping into your core, that had your eyes crossing with unadulterated pleasure, and your body trembling as you drifted closer and closer to a release. “I’m getting close, baby…” you half-plea, rocking your hips up to meet him in a sloppy, slick joining. if Rafayel was anything, he was a skilled lover. he knew that you didn’t need to be stuffed full on every occasion, and so he experimented with how many inches to fuck into you each time you laid together. tonight, though his thrusts were quick and greedy, he was only giving you half of his length at a time, letting the swollen, leaking tip of his cock head bully the spongy cluster of nerves that made up your g-spot until you were shaking and sputtering, instead of fucking you deep and steady.

“Yeah?” he asked upon prying his mouth away with a wet pop. his voice husky and low, and saliva glistening against the pink lower tier of his kiss-swollen couplet. his own complexion, though typically porcelain, had taken on a dusky, rosé glow, especially against the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and the expanse of his chiseled chest. his mouth, though still parted and panting out puffs of hot breath against your hardened nipple, curved into a strained smile as his eyes searched your countenance, equally lovedrunk. “Wanna cum with me, pretty girl?” he asked, his eyes darkened as he buries his face between the valley of your tits, breathing in the scent of the sweat oozing from your pores. his eyelids fluttered as he drank it in, like a man intoxicated, and you felt the warm, bumpy surface of his tongue flat against your flesh to lap at that essence. “Oh, fuck, tell me,” he murmured, muffled, as the lower quarter of his face disappears into your cleavage, but his eyes gaze up at you, the purple hues within them dim and stormy. “Tell me that you want me to make you finish while I cum in your warm, little pussy.”

you nod, eagerly, your voice breaking out of desperation as you tug on his hair, unsure of whether to pull him up to kiss his lips or smother him between your tits. “Y—yes, Rafayel! Please, make me cum with you!”

you’d hardly gotten the beg out before Rafayel was responding. sitting back on his haunches, he allowed almost every inch to slip from your clutching heat— until only his the bulbous head remained notched just beyond the threshold. you mewled at the lack of fullness in your depths, but your disappointment was soon replaced with pleasure. Rafayel allowed his hands, soft yet strong, to slip under your hips and drag your body close, until your bottom rested on the slope of his legs, keeping your lower half elevated on his lap. “C’mere, baby…” he breathed out, one hand splaying out against your lower belly, fingers stroking beneath your navel, allowing his thumb the reach he needed to paw at your clit in tight, concise circles. your own hands, that had initially reached out for him when he shifted positions, now fell back against the pillow your head rested on, fisting handfuls of it, unneeded, while Rafayel tended to your body. you moaned his name, your head tilting up so you were staring at the ceiling, brows furrowed, focusing wholly on his perfect ministrations.

“You look so cute like this,” Rafayel murmured, more to himself than to you, his free hand gripping the girth of his cock tight. he was still slick with your juices, and he used that to his advantage, pumping the exposed inches instead of plunging into you, to the rhythm same rhythm he assaulted your clit. the treatment elicits of moan from his parted lips, that bubbles up from deep within his throat. “— squirming and needy, chasing your high for me. Come on, pretty girl, cum on my cock for me.”

a few more encouraging words and Rafayel’s thumb running laps over your button is all that you need before you catch that orgasm you were so desperately chasing. you hear his voice, as soon as he saw you were about to be engulfed, whisper harshly, “Look at me,” and you were barely able to obey, your eyes flitting to his face just in time to glaze over. you maintained the unfocused eye contact, stars forming in your peripherals, and Rafayel doesn’t let up, coaxing you with furious strumming on your swollen clit to ride out the orgasm he’s giving you. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked, knowing damn well the only response you could give him was a strangled yip and a half nod, his breathless smile widening, “Yeah? I know, baby, I know. I feel it, too. I’m cumming,” he growled, pumping himself erratically a few more times before he spilled himself inside you. warmth seeps in, spreads through your shallow core, and dribbles out in thick, streamers when Rafayel pulls his sated, softening cock from you. your cunt clenches, one last stitch effort to keep him anchored inside you, which ultimately pushes another rope of his creamy release out of your freshly-fucked body.

Rafayel sat back on his haunches for several moments, panting, with his twitching cock now draped, flaccid, over his sweat-sheened thigh, as he gazed down at his handiwork— his hands finding your trembling shape. he felt along the flare of your hips, up over your waist, his thumbs gently massaging the flesh there as he eased you out of your aftershocks with gentle fondling. “Come back to me, pretty girl, you’re so cute when you’re cumdrunk.” he murmured, drawing shapes over your heated flesh as he coaxed you back from the brink. his palms pressed against your sides, before careening downward, over your lower belly. “I left this pretty pussy all messy again, didn’t I?” he teased, applying enough pressure on your lower belly to force more of his cum to spill out of you and on to the sheets. you whimper at the sensation, your toes curled, and you nod. Rafayel only chuckles, angling his hand so his pointer and middle finger, slender and deft in their movements, can spread open your puffy netherlips. his breath, which had mostly recovered, left him in a soft, awed gasp as he admired the way his cum painted your folds, leaving them sticky and claimed. his cock twitches on his thigh. though hypersensitive, it jumped, as if waking up to the sight.

Rafayel sighs, rolling his eyes, acting as though the mere re-hardening of his cock was burdensome. “Can’t ever just go one time, can we?” he asked, sarcastically, quirking a brow as he stares up at you.

“You make it sound like it’s my fault,” you counter breathlessly, your hands finally unlatching from the pillow. your muscles are sore, but you run your fingers along the shape of his shoulders as he positions himself to take you again.

“Of course it’s your fault. You look too fuckable when you’ve got my cum oozing out of you.” Rafayel rasps, guiding his now-ready cock back into your sloppy hole. it slips inside easily, his cum frothing around it as he almost instantly falls back into his previous pace, bracing you in place when his hands grip the roundest part of your hips. “Fuck, yes…” he stutters a bit, pushing his cock deep enough to hilt it once, before dragging it out slow. you cry out; the nerves in your sex already heightened, so this new round of fucking feels almost statically-charged. his eyes list downwards, taking in the way his previous release cocktailed with your arousal coats his cock in rings as he pulls out, marking the depth of his thrust. “And besides, you take me in even better the second time.” he purrs with a contented sigh.